clone characters when you sit on their lap (my headcanons)
a/n: happy AAPI month!! don't forget to give ur local asian a kiss -- aka me ;)
afab reader
warnings: suggestive content
hunter manspreads like no tomorrow, but surprise still flickers through his gaze when you cozy up along his thighs, intentionally wriggling your hips just enough for him to close his eyes and exhale a shallow breath from this slow, teasing friction. he leans back in his seat and takes you with him, wrapping one arm across your chest and the other around your waist as he pulls you flush against his hard body. his lips graze your earlobe as he murmurs, "you think i don't know what you're doing? hm?"
tech kisses the back of your neck in acknowledgement, gently rubbing along your waist while his datapad occupies his other hand. you stroke his face as his gaze flickers over the screen with concentration, nearly fooling you into believing he's too busy for you. you gasp softly when his thigh slips between your legs, shifting your position to something a little more compromising. "tech..." you whisper, but he acts oblivious as he slowly starts rocking his thigh against you, replying, "yes, my love?"
wrecker engulfs you in his arms, nestling you into his chest as he buries his face into you from behind. you sitting on his lap might be one of his favorite ways to cuddle, and he loves having full autonomy to get up and carry you around wherever he pleases. his hands sneak up to cup your breasts, shamelessly squeezing them like stress balls as he groans in relief. "you're so soft..." he mumbles, one of his hands coming down to pin your hips down. "quit squirmin' or i'll get hard," he grunts.
crosshair rests his chin on your shoulder from behind, a sweet distraction from the way his hands drop to your thighs with a subtle squeeze. his long, careful fingers drape over your skin and slowly slide inward, parting your legs with a smooth back-and-forth caress that makes your breath hitch and your posture freeze up. you feel his thumbs get dangerously close to your center, and you try to close your legs. he kisses your collarbone, smirking to himself as you tremble from all this teasing.
echo smiles softly and wraps his arm around your shoulder while you get comfortable in his lap. you tuck your face under his chin, feeling his heartbeat pick up a little at the excitement of being so close, but his voice is calm and steady as he murmurs, "everything okay?" you nod and tell him, "just wanted to be close to you..." and he kisses the top of your head, his lips curving when he feels your hand trail down his chest in slow, deliberate strokes. "hm, you sure that's all?" he chuckles.
wolffe settles his hands around your hips to keep you still—no teasing under his watch. you lean your head back on his shoulder and stare up at him, your eyes sweet with a smile. you reach for his chin to tug him down into a kiss, whispering, "missed you, handsome," finally bringing a hint of amusement to his stern expression. he smiles against your lips and kisses down your jawline, sucking gently on your neck. "missed you, too," he admits gruffly. your hips squirm in his grip a bit as you feel a growing pressure start to rise between his legs, and you giggle softly, whispering, "oh, i can tell..." which earns you a rough, playful nip to your earlobe.
fox looks asleep as he drapes his forearm over his eyes and leans back in his seat. his legs are spread wide in a silent but desperate invitation, so you're quiet when you gingerly crawl into his lap, kissing his cheek softly. the arm covering his face quickly comes down to wrap around your body and pull you close, tucking you against his chest with a sigh of content. slightly embarrassed, he keeps his eyes shut and hides his face from you in the crook of your neck, mumbling, "stay..." under his breath.
cody rests his chin on the top of your head as you lean against him, fitting perfectly between his legs. he closes his eyes and presses his nose into your hair, trying to tame the growing weight in his breathing when you start to run your hands over his thighs. your touch sets him on fire, and you hear him say, "careful..." under his breath, pulling your ass flush against his hips. "or else we might be here for a while," he mutters, not planning on letting you go until the situation in his pants dies down.
mayday is always patting his thighs for you to sit down. he likes to take his morning caf with you in his lap, he likes to watch tv all snuggled up, he just loves feeling your weight on him so closely intertwined. he smiles when you sit on his lap without being prompted, wrapping a firm arm around your waist while his other hand reaches up to brush his knuckles against your cheek in a light, affectionate caress. "you know just what i wanted, huh?" he murmurs as he kisses your temple.
rex nuzzles the crook of your neck and slips his hands under your shirt to rub slow, gentle circles over your stomach, occasionally teasing the waistband of your pants. he loves fondling your mid-section, claiming all the "grab-able" parts of your body with his touch. "rexxx, that tickles," you laugh, trying to squirm away, but he hugs you tighter, pleading, "don't go," in a soft tone that melts your body into his. his lips find the side of your neck, kissing a featherlight path as he entices you to stay put.
fives wraps his arms around your waist to pull you even closer. it looks like an innocent hug, but his touch feels like trouble as he runs his hands over your thighs slowly. you narrow your eyes at him over your shoulder when he subtly adjusts his hips under you, pushing himself up between your thighs, where you feel a bulge start to rub against your ass. he meets your eyes with a cocky smirk, his eyebrows slightly raised and his head tilted as if to ask, "what are you gonna do about it?"
kix leans back and braces his hands on your shoulders to pull them back, trying to fix your posture after all the times he's lectured you about it. he starts to massage away the stiff tension in your upper body. "you don't have to..." you tell him quietly. he kisses the nape of your neck, whispering, "shh, just relax," which you do, arching your back and sighing in relief, all your soft little noises getting him hard underneath you, but he doesn't pay any mind to that when this moment is about you.
jesse grins and says, "yeah, c'mere," tilting your face to the side for a quick kiss. your lips come down on his as he straightens his posture, his arms coming around your waist from behind. you giggle against his mouth when something starts to dig into your ass. "someone's excited..." you tease, which causes him to wrinkle his nose and mutter, "your fault..." before he kisses you again, this time turning your whole body to the side so that he's cradling you in his arms. "you're not goin' anywhere..."
hardcase finger-drums against your thighs as you get settled in his lap, but he can't sit still for very long before he's kissing all over your neck and collarbones, his hand loosely wrapped around your throat for him to access you as he pleases. "mm—turn around for me," he mumbles, tugging on your thigh until you're suddenly straddling him, your lips colliding. he cups your ass and pushes your hips closer to his, leaning all the way back until he's lying down with your body wrapped around him on top.
gregor loves spreading you around one of his thighs when you sit on his lap; it might be one of his top motivators to staying fit—forget being a soldier, he lives for the little hitch in your breath as you pulse against the pressure of his muscular thigh pushing up on the warmth between your legs. "aw, don't be shy," he rasps in your ear, fitting his hands around your hips to move them with control. "let me help you out, yeah?" he whispers, kissing the spot underneath your earlobe as you whimper.
howzer laces your fingers together and rests your joined hands in your lap. his thumb strokes your skin in a gentle back-and-forth motion while he buries his face into your hair. "that's my shampoo," he mutters, his nose grazing the back of your neck as he kisses his way down, tickling you with the soft pressure of his lips. you suck in a breath and whisper, "i hope you don't mind." he shakes his head. "no, i don't mind..." his voice lowers, and he pushes up on your hips a bit. "use me all you want..."
emerie strokes your hair, playing with the ends of it as you lean back against her. she looks down at the calm rise and fall of your chest, sort of zoning out until you glance up, leaning close to kiss her. she startles, but her eyes flutter closed at the touch of your lips on hers, and you gasp quietly against her mouth when her hand trails down to caress the inside of your thigh. she rubs your skin with a soothing gentleness as you deepen the kiss, your hips shifting hungrily to chase her touch.
request guidelines | fic list | tumblr hc list | tiktok hc list
I just had this idea. I like the hc that for the clones, if their commanding officer calls them by their number = your mom calling you by your full name.
Could you do one when their SO calls them by their number, and they just know they are in trouble 😭🙏
Clones x gn reader: you calling them by their number
warnings: none
A/N: ahhh that's such a fun idea!! i hc that some of them have a really complicated relationship with their numbers so you might be on thin ice with that one xD
comments and reblogs are very appreaciated!! :D
The Bad Batch
Hunter
"CT-9901"
"What?!" Hunter's voice is biting. He hates whenever his number is used. It reminds him that he's supposed to be defective, even if he doesn't feel like it. It has been used against his squad way too many times. But then he notices little signs of your body, how tense you are, your heartbeat that is way too fast, your breathing…
Hunter takes a breath, running a hand through his hair and putting the knife he'd been sharpening down. "Don't," he mutters, more to himself as a warning. He knows he's about to say something stupid, he already did by the looks of it. He doesn't need to make it worse.
Tech
"CT-9902"
"That would be my designation. Is there a reason you are using it instead of my name?" Tech readjusts his googles for the tenth time in the last few minutes. The two of you had engaged in a heated argument about certain comments he was making that he did not see a problem with and he refusea to listen to another perspective.
You think maybe using the number would make him at least pause, let you get a word in, and seemingly it does.
Tech knows something was wrong when you used his number because it sounds so similar to the regs and Kaminoans using it whenever he annoyed them but you are different. You know that and you have never used it this way before so that could only mean one thing; you were pissed. Royally.
Tech put his datapad down, turning his full attention towards you. He cannot undo the words he's said but he can at least listen from now. "Explain my error. I will listen now."
Wrecker
"CT-9903"
Wrecker stops. He hadn't heard his number in a long time. With the batch having numbers this similar, they are rarely used and his name is just something that fit him quite well so for you to use it…
"Oh… I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?" His voice turns quieter, softer. He drops the crate he is holding. It was fine, nothing fragile anyway. You are more important. Wrecker tries to wrack his brain about what he did wrong. "I'm sorry. I… really am. Uhm, I don't know what I did wrong but— I'm sorry."
Crosshair
"CT-9904"
He snaps to attention immediately, his mouth audibly clicking shut. He hasn't heard his number ever since he defected from the Empire and you know it was something he avoided thinking about as much as possible.
So for you to use it against him, he knows he fucked up but he doesn't know how to react. On one hand, he wants to apologise and make it right but on the other hand, that number triggered him in a way that leaves him unbalanced.
"That's low," Crosshair's voice is razor-thin but there's no anger in his eyes, just something raw and wounded. "If you want me to listen, fine. But don't use their language against me."
Echo
"CT-1409"
Once those numbers left your mouth, Echo froze. The only time it is ever used these days is in medical settings and those always left him hollow afterwards. He stares at the floor for a few seconds, processing.
When he looks up, his expression is tired. Not angry. Just… exhausted.
“Wow,” he says softly. “Okay. I deserved that.” He runs a hand over his head. “I’ll fix it. Whatever it was. Just… please don’t do that again. I hear those numbers in my nightmares enough as it is.”
Commanders
Wolffe
"CC-3636"
Wolffe goes rigid. He's used to being called "Commander" or "Sir" by his men. But for you he has always been just "Wolffe". He scans your expression with narrowed eyes.
"Want to run that by me again?" he growls, but there's flicker of unease beneath the gruff exterior. He crosses his arms, a defensive posture. He knows he’s been difficult lately. He just didn’t think you’d notice — or care — enough to pull this card.
Fox
"CC-1010"
Fox flinches. Actually flinches.
His number was a curse. It’s the number on the report every time a Corrie Guard falls. It’s the number Palpatine’s office used to summon him at 3 AM. Hearing it from your lips feels like a betrayal.
He doesn’t get angry. He just looks… defeated. He pulls his helmet back on, the visor hiding his eyes. “Message received,” he says, his voice flat and filtered through the comms. “Loud and clear.”
Cody
"CC-2224"
Cody stops writing his report. He sets the stylus down with a deliberate click. He turns in his chair, looking at you with that calm, measured gaze that all great commanders seem to have. He’s not scared. You two have had fights and arguments before and have resolved them all just fine.
That you used his number was new, and it made him pause but also want to listen to you more.
"Alright. That serious, is it?" He asks quietly. He doesn't apologize yet, he doesn't know what for yet, but he's giving you his full undivided attention. "Well, talk to me, dear. I'm listening."
501st
Rex
"CT-7567"
Rex blinks once. Twice. He carefully sets his helmet on the table a gesture of surrender. He knows that if you’re bringing out the number, this isn’t a battle he’s going to win with authority.
“Alright, mesh’la,” he says, holding up his hands. “You got me. What’d I do?” He’s trying to keep his tone light, but his ears are slightly red. He hates being reminded that he’s a number to the GAR. To you, he wants to be just Rex.
Fives
"CT-5555"
"Yes, that's my full name, you know you can just say Fives to save time," Fives replies, ever the cocky one. But you don't laugh, don't even smile like usually. You just glare.
His smile falters. Then it dies completely. He pushes off the wall, suddenly serious. “Oh.” He swallows hard. “It’s like that, is it?” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking very young. “I’ll, uh… I’ll just go wait in the barracks until you’re ready to talk. Or yell. Whichever you feel like.”
Jesse
"CT-5597"
Jesse freezes mid-laugh. He was just joking around with Kix, but the sound of his number, sharp and cold, cuts through the noise like a vibroblade.
He turns slowly, his shoulders tensing. "Is there a problem?" he asks, his voice slipping into a more neutral and respectful tone. He’s slipped into ‘soldier mode’ to protect himself from the emotional whiplash.
Kix
"CT-6116"
Kix sighs. A deep, world-weary sigh that only the medic of the 501st can truly master.
He sets down his medical kit and crosses over to you. He doesn’t look scared or angry, he's wrestled so many delirious soldiers that the difference between his name and number didn't mean much to him on days like these.
He gently takes your chin, tilting your head to check your pupils. “Your blood pressure is up. Talk to me.”
Hardcase
He doesn't get it at first when you say his number, turning towards you with a smile. "Yep, that's my number. Did you memorize it? That's so sweet!"
It takes him a full five seconds to see the look on your face. Then his energetic bouncing stops and his eyes go wide. “Oh. Oh no. I’m in trouble, aren’t I? Is it the explosives? I bet it was the explosive. I swear it wasn't my fault I can fix it tho—"
Dogma
"CT-6922"
Dogma stands up even straighter, which feels almost impossible since he always stands at attention. He responds to his number like a droid to a command. "Yes?"
But then he sees the fury in your eyes, the disappointment and his gaze falls to his boots, realising that it's you he disappointed and that's somehow worse than facing the disappointemnt of authority. "I see…" he says quietly. "What did I do wrong?"
Tup
"CT-5385"
Tup’s bottom lip trembles slightly. He’s so sensitive, so eager to please. Hearing his number from you feels like a physical blow. He sets down the little droid he was tinkering with and walks over to you, his brown eyes wide and glossy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, not even knowing what for. “I don’t like that. It sounds wrong when you say it.” You already feel bad having ever used the number.
Misc.
Howzer
He pauses with his cup of caf halfway to his lips as you say his number. He doesn't get defensive or flinch. He just sets the cup down and looks at you with those steady, honest eyes. The scar on his cheek pulls slightly as he offers a small smile.
“That bad, huh?” He holds out his hand to you. “Come here. If you’re pulling out the designation, then I deserve whatever lecture is coming. But can we do it sitting down? I have a feeling it’s a long one.”
Hi! I was wondering if I could request head canons for the 501st and what would happen after a really bad argument with their s/o? Like their s/o is not talking to them and or not sleeping in the same bed as them, what would they do?
501st x gn reader: major argument/giving them the silent treatment headcanons
warnings: none
Rex:
Rex is stubborn during arguments, especially if he genuinely believes he's right. He won't raise his voice with you, but he can get frustratingly set in his position once he's dug his heels in. It might take him some time to cool off enough to see your side of things sometimes
If you won't talk to him afterwards, he tries his best to respect that. He'll tell himself that you're entitled to your space and that pushing isn't gonna help anything
Sleeping separately is what hits him pretty hard. The empty space beside him is just a constant reminder that things aren't okay between you and he ends up staring at the ceiling for most of the night, trying to keep himself from just getting up and going to you
Spends the entire night replaying the argument in his head. He's picking apart every sentence and trying to figure out where he could've handled it better. By morning he's often thought himself into a completely different perspective
The next morning, he's seeking you out immediately. He's done with the tension dragging on and even if he's still frustrated, he'll sit down with you and talk everything through until you've both said what needs to be said. Hugs you after and mumbles that he won't let arguments get that bad again
Fives:
Fives wants to solve the problem. Even once you're walking away from the argument, he's trying to continue the conversation. He's doesn't want to leave things unfinished and as far as he's concerned the argument isn't over until the two of you have actually talked it out
Tries everything. Will exhaust every option to try to get you to just talk to him. He's not trying to be overbearing or anything, he just hates having things hanging in the air between you and wants to get things resolved. Tries reasoning, pleading, humor, anything
Finally relents when you make it clear you're not budging. If he realizes you're digging your heels in and every attempt is just making things worse, he lets out a frustrated sigh and gives you space
Sleeping separately is where he's had enough. Having things be drawn out for a few hours is one thing, but all night? Possibly into the next day? Absolutely not. He lasts as long as he can before giving up and getting up with a huff
Goes to wherever you're getting ready to sleep and asks you to please just talk to him. He'd rather stay up until dawn working through the argument than spend the night wondering how broken things are between you
Kix:
Kix regrets the argument literally as it's happening, even if he still thinks he had a point. Once emotions cool down, he's already kinda wishing things had gone differently
He's a little hurt if you won't talk to him after, but he also gets it. He'll try checking in a few times, asking if you're ready to talk or if there's anything he can do. His voice gets softer with every attempt
If you keep shutting him down, he'll back off. He's pretty miserable, though. He understands that you want space, and so he's willing to give it to you, but he's also over the argument at this point and just wants to make things better
Once it's clear you're not coming to bed either, his brain is back in problem-solving mode. He's up for half the night staring at the wall while mentally planning apologies, conversations, and ways to make things right
The next morning, he's showing up prepared whether it's your favorite caf/tea, breakfast, or just a carefully thought-out apology. Gives you the opportunity to talk/air things out and is SO relieved when things finally get smoothed over
Jesse:
So stubborn when he's upset. If you're digging your heels in, he's digging his in harder. Not about to give you the satisfaction of seeing him cave first. Or at least that's what he tells himself
Acts like it doesn't bother him when you stop talking to him. Throws himself into whatever he's doing and makes a point of looking completely unbothered. But it's a performance and not a particularly convincing one lol
Secretly, he's absolutely miserable. Keeps looking up whenever you enter the room and then looks away when you catch him. Every hour that passes without hearing your voice makes him more irritated with the entire situation. He’s angry that you’re ignoring him but at the same time he’s yearning for you as if it’s been days instead of just like an hour or whatever
When you decide to sleep separately, his resolve starts cracking fast. Argues with you about it and then huffs like okay fine have it your way. Leaves for a bit. It doesn’t last
Eventually, he's just had enough. Crawls into bed beside you and grumbles like, "We're done arguing. Move over". Yeah the issue's not magically resolved and he's probably still a little pissed but he just misses you so muchhhh
Hardcase:
Incapable of letting an argument die gracefully. Every time it seems like the conversation is over, he suddenly remembers something else he wants to say. The argument gains three extra rounds because he keeps coming back
When you stop talking to him, he's frustrated. The silence drives him absolutely insane. Keeps trying to get your attention and the more he fails the more restless he gets
He tries distracting himself, but nothing sticks. Paces around and occupies himself with literally whatever he can find to do, but still ends up thinking about you the entire time anyway
Once he realizes you're sleeping separately, the frustration starts giving way to hurt. Suddenly it's not just an argument anymore, you're actively avoiding him and don't wanna be around him, and he can't stand that feeling
Shows up at some point in the night looking exhausted and annoyed. Just stands there in the doorway for a minute before being like "….I can't sleep :(" might accidently restart the argument for five minutes but somehow it always ends with the two of you curled up together anyway
Tup:
Really stubborn during arguments, once he's upset about something he clings to it for a pretty long time and needs time to process before he's ready to bend
If you start giving him the silent treatment, he’s a little hurt but honestly he kinda needs the time too. Still catches himself wondering every five minutes if you're still angry with him
As the hours pass, he cools down and starts getting restless. He's fidgeting and checking the time way more often than necessary, his thoughts circling back to you no matter what he tries to focus on
When you don't come to bed, his heart sinks. He doesn't come looking for you because he wants to respect what you want, but he spends the whole night feeling awful
By the next morning, he's ready to fold immediately. The second you seem even remotely willing to talk, he's apologizing and pleading with you to let him make things better and admitting how much he hated being at odds with you. More than anything he just wants reassurance that the two of you are okay
Dogma:
AWFUL during arguments. The second he feels criticized he's getting defensive and digging trenches. He always has another counterargument ready and absolutely HAS to have the last word
If you stop talking to him, fine. He won't talk either. He spends hours convincing himself he's perfectly fine with this arrangement and that actually it was his idea in the first place and he doesn't miss you oh no not at all
The longer the silence lasts, though, the harder it becomes to maintain his pride. Starts to become a little uncertain, replaying the argument in his head and questioning things he was so staunch about earlier, regretting things he said
By the time the night comes around and you're refusing to sleep beside him, he's miserable, exhausted, and increasingly aware that "winning" the argument (even if he didn't win he’s telling himself he did…) hasn't actually made him feel any better. In fact, he feels much worse. Huh.
His stubbornness is mostly gone the next day. He shows up looking tired and guilty, awkwardly asking if you two can talk. And once you've made up he is ATTACHED to you. He's making up for missing that night with you with enough cuddling to last a week
In Case of Forgotten Heating Pad, Use a Clone Medic Instead
Pairing: Kix x fem!reader
Word count: ~2.5k
Tags/Warnings: a little suggestive, but not nsfw; reader is on her period; some discussions regarding periods and other natural processes; i'm torturing poor Kix by embarrassing him; poorly-timed(?) boner; first kiss; short n' sweet; a little bit of mutual pining
My first offering for the @gar-romance-month
Event prompt: Cuddling
A/N: inspired by my uterus trying to kill me a few periods ago. Wish I had Kix to take care of me.
Masterlist
Kix is watching you closely. He’s always doing that due to the annoying, frustrating, completely unattainable crush he’s developed after weeks of working with you side by side. Honestly, it was impossible not to fall for you, and he doesn’t understand how the entire damn battalion isn’t completely smitten.
The way you move with graceful, yet deadly precision on the battlefield, wielding your lightsaber like it’s an extension of your very soul.
The way you kneel by the side of injured troopers, sharing your own lifeforce to keep them breathing.
The way you offer kind words and comfort even when you’re drained of power and exhausted.
Kix never stood a damn chance.
It didn’t help that, as the healer assigned to the 501st, you’re always in the medbay, always next to him in and out of the battle. And it definitely didn’t help that, when Jesse noticed his crush on you, he started asking you to join them for meals, for hang-outs in the breakroom or outings at the 79s.
But it’s pointless, useless to even imagine you might harbour the same painfully hidden feelings.
So he watches you, and laughs at your jokes, and does his very best to make you smile.
This time, however, his gaze is full of concern.
Because from the second you sat down across from him at their table in the mess hall, you seemed… off.
Your face is slightly drained of its usual colour, and your eyes seem unfocused, as if exhaustion is tightly wrapped around your body in a cold, suffocating embrace. The food on your plate keeps being pushed around, yet it barely makes its way into your mouth. And you’re just a little hunched over, not holding yourself with the typical Jedi finesse he always admires.
When your eyes meet his, Kix shoots you a quizzical look, tilting his head in a silent question. You reply by slightly shaking your head and waving a hand to dismiss his concern, then move your attention back to the story Fives is retelling about his first embarrassingly unsuccessful attempt at hooking up with a girl.
But Kix can’t pay attention to his vod. His medic intuition is screaming that something is wrong. And when he sees you wince in pain, sweet, worried Kix instantly disappears – and lead medic CT-6116 fully takes over.
“Nope, that’s it. You’re coming to the medbay!” he suddenly speaks, bringing all light-hearted conversation around the table to a standstill.
“Kix, I’m fine,” you object with a small roll of your eyes. “It’s nothing.”
Unfortunately, your point is completely ruined as you grimace and involuntarily wrap your arms around your lower abdomen.
“Something is clearly wrong. Medbay. Now!” Kix orders.
“It’s fine, really,” you keep insisting.
Kix is already standing, levelling you with a sharp, but concerned look. “Don’t make me pull rank.”
The entire table watches the confrontation silently, their eyes moving from you to the medic.
“Maker,” you hiss, frustrated. “It’s just my period, okay? Just a bad cramp. It’ll pass.”
“Oh.”
Kix sits back down on the bench, a blush creeping up the back of his neck.
That is not really something he covered during his combat medic training on Kamino. It simply hadn’t been considered efficient or necessary to teach them about female physiology when every trooper produced was biologically male. For the first time since the war began, Kix feels out of his depth.
Di’kut. He should’ve researched this the moment you joined the team.
“Can’t you – I don’t know – make it go away with your Jetti magic?” Fives asks, leaning to see you better past Hardcase.
“That requires being able to concentrate,” you explain. “And it’s always… difficult for me to do during the first two days.” You pause, rubbing your temples. “Hormonal shifts mess with my focus. Especially with Force healing.”
You almost laugh at the awkward silence that settles over the table. For all their bravery and confidence, at the end of the day, they’re still just boys – with very little experience of the world beyond training sims and battlefields.
“I’ll take a painkiller if you have one, though,” you say, directing the request to Kix.
“Uh right, yes,” he mumbles as he stands. “I’ll get right on that.”
He hurries out the mess, muttering some curses. He just had to choose today of all days to come to lunch only in his blacks, wishing to take advantage of the time spent in hyperspace, where they’re safe from any attacks. But what kind of medic doesn't carry some painkillers on him at all times?
He's in and out of the medbay in under thirty seconds, then quickly makes his way back to the mess. When he walks in, however, he instantly clocks that you're no longer sat at their table.
“Echo is helping her get back to her cabin. She said she needed to lay down,” Jesse explains as soon as he approaches.
Kix spins on his heels and pretty much sprints out the large room and down the corridors, catching up to you and Echo as you're waiting for the turbolift.
“I got it from here,” he announces, walking to your side.
Echo nods to him, then gently claps your shoulder before heading back toward the mess.
“Did you run?” you ask, amused, as you notice his rapid breathing.
Kix shrugs in response, then helps you get in the lift. The cramps have intensified. It's not something completely uncommon that might cause you to worry, but it's bad enough that you lean into his side and allow him to help get you back in your quarters.
You plop down on your cot, while Kix hurries to find a cup to fill with water.
“Left side cabinet,” you instruct, watching slightly amused as he completes his task.
Kix hands you the painkillers and the cup, and you thank him with a weak smile.
Once you take the meds, you push the cover away and lay down on your side, knees drawn to your chest and eyes screwed shut as another cramp claws its way through your body.
Ever the medic, Kix kneels by the bed, and checks your temperature with the back of his palm.
Your eyes open, puzzled to feel his hand on your forehead. “I’m not sick, Kix.”
“Just making sure,” he says.
Without thinking, he cups your face and tilts your head so he can better see your pupils. They seem a little wider than usual, but maybe it’s just the lighting in your room.
“Your hand’s warm,” you remark, leaning a little into his touch.
Kix nearly chokes on air.
“Clones, uh… run hot,” he says as his thumb gently strokes your cheek.
He should absolutely not be touching you, a Jedi, like this. And yet… you’re not pulling away. You’re human, after all, you need the comfort. And he sure as hell is happy to provide it.
You close your eyes and wince as another bad cramp hits you. Kix swears his heart clenches at the small sound you make. It could take half an hour for the medicine to kick in… maybe he should run back to the medbay and get you a bacta shot.
“Kix?” you speak before he can decide what to do. “Could you hold me?”
“W-What?”
He didn’t hear you right… did he? There’s no way you just asked–
“Heat is good for cramps,” you explain softly. “But we shipped out so quickly, I forgot to pack my heating pad.” You hesitate, starting to feel a little nervous at the shocked look on his face. “You’re warm, you know?” you add, quieter.
It takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up. Then he moves – quickly, before logic can talk him out of it. Carefully, he climbs into bed behind you, resting his head on a folded arm as he presses close. Impossibly close.
You sigh, content, once you feel the steady heat of him through your clothes. He’s not entirely sure what to do with his other hand, but thankfully you take the lead; you reach for his arm and guide it yourself, draping it over your lower abdomen.
And then you’re just… cuddling. On a bed. In your room. Alone.
Kix is starting to believe that maybe he’s dreaming.
He’s never been this close to you before. Never been able to feel your ribcage expand against his chest as you breathe or smell the floral scent that clings to your hair. It’s intoxicating, and a weird guilty feeling twists in his stomach as he realises he’s somewhat glad you’re in enough pain to need him like this.
It’s horrible, and he hates himself for ever thinking it. But… Maker, he’s been dreaming of holding you like this for so long…
“Thank you,” you murmur as you readjust, trying to get more comfortable. In the process, the hem of your top rides up – and Kix’s fingers brush the soft skin of your abdomen.
And the mortifying effect is immediate.
His eyes go wide as heat floods his body, his lower blacks suddenly far too tight. This isn’t happening to him. Not right now. Kix’s entire body goes as stiff as his growing member and he pulls back slightly from you. The last thing he wants is for you to feel his hardened length on your ass and think he’s some sort of creep.
Kix is not a religious man – but right now he sure is praying to the Maker for you not to realise what’s happening. Stars help him, he’s never felt more embarrassed in his life and his heart is pounding in his chest, all of a sudden hyperaware of how close his fingers are to your core.
Why? Why now when he could finally enjoy being so close to you? Why did his body have to betray him like this?
Unfortunately, you do notice the warmth of his body retreating from the area where you need it most, and how rigidly he suddenly is behind you. It confuses you, and you can only assume he’s uncomfortable because of the position you’ve put him in. The very not professional position.
You need to somehow lighten the air.
“It’s not always this bad,” you mutter. “But sometimes my uterus gets bored and tries to kill me.”
Your joke doesn’t seem to land, as Kix refuses to relax behind you.
“Right, sorry,” you continue with a small chuckle. “The uterus is an organ–”
“I know what the uterus is,” Kix interrupts you with a scoff.
“So you should also know that periods are completely natural,” you state.
Kix groans. “I know that…”
“You sure?” you challenge. “Because you seem uncomfortable and I know some men find periods gross–”
“That’s not why I’m uncomfortable!” he protests, immediately regretting the choice of words.
“So you admit you’re uncomfortable,” you accuse, your tone both amused and slightly irritated.
“N-No, that’s… that’s the wrong word,” Kix huffs, starting to get frustrated. “I misspoke.”
“Then what is it, Kix?” you press. “Why are you so tense?”
“I’m not–”
“You are! And I don’t get–”
“I have an erection, okay?!” Kix blurts out.
“Oh.” You blink, a little caught off guard. “That's uhh… also very natural.”
“Maker take me now,” he mutters.
A heavy, loaded silence falls around you, and Kix feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Yet he can’t help but notice that you haven’t pushed his arm away or called him a creep like he expected.
Then, suddenly, you move closer to him, pressing your backside right into his pelvis. Kix grunts, strained and involuntary.
“Damn,” you remark, voice a little husky. “You’re big.”
His eyes go wide. This definitely has to be a dream. A cruel trick his mind is playing on him. Because there’s no way you could be this okay with what’s happening.
“Kix? Did it, uhm, just happen or… is there a reason behind it?” you ask.
When you don’t receive a response, you turn to face him, but the medic is doing everything to avoid your gaze. His face is flushed, redder than you’ve ever seen it before, and a pitiful look fills his eyes.
You take a deep breath, hoping you’re not reading this wrong. “What I’m asking is… do you maybe… like me back?”
His eyes snap to yours. “Back?” he repeats, voice tinged with fragile hope.
The nerves are getting to you, so all you can manage in reply is two small nods.
A smile slowly blooms on his face. Hesitantly, his fingers brush some hair behind your ear, before cradling your cheek.
“If I wake up in the barracks and this was all a dream, I’m gonna be so pissed off,” Kix murmurs.
A small, melodic laugh falls from your lips, pulling at his heartstrings. Your hand reaches for him, resting in the middle of his solid chest. A little proof that you’re really there.
“Your heart’s racing,” you observe.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It does that whenever I'm near you.”
You grasp his hand, moving it from your face over your own racing heart. “Mine too.”
Kix huffs a small, incredulous breath. Then, he slowly trails his hand from your chest to the back of your neck, and leans in closer.
“Mesh'la,” he rasps. “Can I kiss you?”
You don't answer with words, instead you tilt your head and close the small distance between you.
The kiss is short and sweet, a tentative brush of your lips against his. The softness on his movements makes you melt. And it sends a rush of electricity through both of your bodies. He’s always been respectful and patient, and you can taste it on him even now.
Kix pulls away first, almost like he needs to make sure you haven’t disappeared. You greet him with a wide smile, and go to kiss him again – only to be stopped by a sharp cramp twisting in your gut.
Your head falls against his collarbone, and a strained whimper sounds in the back of your throat. Kix wraps his arms around you, pulling you tightly into the warmth of his body.
“Still hurts?” he asks, carefully sliding a hand up and down your back.
“A little,” you reply. You nuzzle the crook of his neck, taking in his scent. It’s a mix of GAR-issued soap, antiseptic and a little sweat – and somehow, the best thing you’ve ever smelled. “This is really helping.”
“Alright, cyar’ika.” He presses a loving kiss on the top of your head. “Then we’ll stay like this until the painkillers kick in.”
“Wouldn’t mind staying like this after that either,” you murmur against his skin.
Kix chuckles, a low rumble you can feel from his chest.
“Then we’ll stay like this for as long as we can.”
I had an idea for a Rex x reader where he's very obviously in love with her and everyone around him can tell but he doesn't want to admit it bc he's afraid she wont feel the same. And its basically just him being completely in love with her and everyone mercilessly teasing him about it.
(and maybe she overhears this teasing and just walks into the conversation like, "you know im in love with you too right?")
I just got this idea into my head and i needed someone to write it ok bye my darling :)
“501st Confidential (Except It’s Not)”
Captain Rex x Reader
You were, in the words of Fives, “the reason Rex turns into an emotionally repressed marshmallow with a death wish.”
The captain of the 501st was an impeccable soldier—composed, sharp, calm under fire. Until you walked into the room.
Then? He forgot how doors worked. Forgot how his voice worked. Forgot how to exist like a functioning adult.
Like this morning.
“Hey, Captain,” you called, brushing past him in the mess. “Sleep okay?”
Rex nearly dropped his tray. “Yeah. I mean—yes. Slept. I slept.”
You gave him a soft little smile. “Good.”
Fives watched the exchange with his spoon frozen in the air, like he’d just witnessed a holo-drama plot twist.
The second you left, Jesse leaned in. “Was that a stroke or a confession?”
“Shut it,” Rex muttered, flustered.
“Come on, Captain Crush,” Kix snorted. “You smiled so hard you got an extra forehead line.”
“I did not,” Rex snapped.
“It twitched,” Echo deadpanned.
“Just admit it,” Fives drawled, draping himself across the table. “You’re in love with her.”
Rex didn’t answer, which—by 501st standards—was practically a marriage proposal.
“Oh no,” Jesse whispered. “He’s so far gone. He’s at the ‘she smiled at me and I heard music’ phase.”
Rex ran a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”
“Affectionately,” Echo added.
⸻
Later, in the hangar, the teasing reached critical mass.
Rex was checking the gunships. He thought he was alone.
He was wrong.
“Y’know,” came Fives’ voice from behind him, “the last time you stared at someone that long, you were planning a tactical assault.”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“Oh? My bad. Meditating on the meaning of her eyes, then?”
Jesse joined them, arms crossed. “Pretty sure he’s composing poetry in his head.”
“I don’t write poetry,” Rex grumbled.
“Then what’s this?” Fives produced a crumpled piece of flimsi. “‘Her voice is like a thermal detonator to my self-control—’”
Rex lunged for it. “Give me that—!”
“—detonating everything in me but discipline. Wow. Wow.”
“I will demote you.”
Fives grinned. “You’d have to catch me first—”
“What’s going on here?” Anakin’s voice cut in as he strolled over, arms folded, suspicious.
“Captain’s in love,” Jesse reported instantly.
“Painfully,” Echo added helpfully.
“Unprofessionally,” Kix muttered as he passed, shaking his head.
Anakin raised a brow at Rex. “Really?”
Rex, red-faced, said, “It’s nothing. They’re being ridiculous.”
Fives leaned over like he’d been waiting for this. “Oh, and you’re one to talk?”
The group roared.
Rex folded his arms, finally smiling. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah,” Jesse added. “We’ve got bets on how long before you and Senator Secret Marriage finally kiss in front of Obi-Wan.”
“I will write all of you up,” Anakin threatened weakly.
“Sure, General,” Fives smirked. “You can fill out the paperwork on your next secret rendezvous.”
Anakin muttered something under his breath and stormed off. Echo saluted his retreating back. “True love never hides well.”
Unbeknownst to them all, you had heard every word.
You had paused just behind the stacks of crates when you heard your name—and then just… stood there, eyes wide, heart pounding, as your entire crush was dissected and laid bare by a group of very loud, very meddling clone troopers.
You waited until Rex tried to escape the roasting.
And then you stepped into view.
“…Hey,” you said sweetly.
Six heads whipped around. Fives looked like he was about to choke.
“(Y/N),” Rex breathed, stunned.
“Just dropping off the new tactical rotation schedules.” You held up a datapad, then let your eyes drift casually toward Rex. “But, uh… I heard a very interesting conversation.”
Fives whispered, “Oh no.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You boys gossip more than the Senators.”
Rex looked like he might pass out. “I—we didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” You walked toward him, stopping just close enough to see the panic in his eyes soften into something gentler.
“I just figured I should say something before one of them exploded from holding it in.”
“Say what?” Rex asked, barely above a whisper.
You reached out, tugging lightly at the edge of his kama. “That I’m in love with you, too.”
The silence was immediate.
Then chaos.
“WHOOO—”
Fives dropped to the floor like he’d been sniped.
Jesse started clapping. “About time!”
“I am a trained medic,” Kix muttered, pointing at Rex. “And even I don’t know if his heart can take this.”
Rex was frozen, then slowly—so slowly—his expression melted into the softest smile you’d ever seen.
“…Really?” he asked.
You nodded, brushing your fingers against his gloved hand. “Really.”
He glanced at the others. “Do we… have to have this moment with them here?”
“Yes,” Fives said, still on the floor. “Yes, you do.”
You grinned, lacing your fingers with Rex’s. “Well, Captain? What do we do now?”
Rex looked at you like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.
“…I’m going to take you to get caf. And not drop my tray this time.”
And with your hand in his, he turned to the squad—flushed, proud, and finally not hiding anything.
Jesse saluted with two fingers. “Permission to say ’called it’?”
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! established relationship, fluff, a little hurt/comfort, smut, fingering, unprotected sex, pinv, dirty talk, me pushing my lingerie kink Kix agenda, and my Kix reads romance novels and poetry agenda, so much medical humor, these two are corny af
Summary: It's been eight months, two weeks, and four days since Kix's last true break away from being the glue holding the 501st together. You've been counting. And as the battalion's resident nurse, you have just the prescription for what ails him.
A/N: I guess this is a sequel to my first Kix fic? But this can definitely be read as a standalone. It's not proofread whatsoever so read at your own peril.
Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist
"You...what?"
You grin up at Kix's stunned face, waving your datapad in the space between you with a triumphant little flourish. "That's right. Two weeks of shore leave, approved, signed, and sealed. General Skywalker's own seal, no less."
Kix continues to stare, eyes wide and lips parted. He looks a bit like a tooka that's just been offered a bowl of cream and isn't entirely sure it isn't a trap. You can practically hear the circuits in that perpetually overworked medical brain of his sizzling.
"But...the 501st is on active deployment," he finally manages, blinking slowly. "We just finished a campaign. Rex has us on rotation for training drills, the inventory of the entire Resolute's medical bay is due for a complete audit..."
He trails off, ticking items off on his fingers as if listing them will magically revoke the bright red letters on your datapad screen: APPROVED. Your grin widens.
"See, that's where your superior planning and my superior paperwork finesse come into play," you say, leaning your hip against the medbay console. The familiar, sterile scent of bacta and disinfectant clings to the air, a scent you've come to associate with safety, but you can't deny you're looking forward to breathing nothing but fresh air and maybe a little sea salt for a while. "I pointed out that you, my dear CMO, have not had a single day of leave since Saleucami. That you've personally logged over three hundred hours of surgical time this quarter alone. And that your stress levels are, and I'm quoting myself here, 'reaching a point where they could negatively impact combat readiness.'"
Kix raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You said that to Skywalker? General Skywalker?"
"I embellished for dramatic effect," you admit with a shrug. "The official report said 'a brief period of recuperation is recommended for optimal long-term performance.' But I got my point across. He signed it. Said we deserved it. Even suggested a destination."
You slide the datapad over to him. There's a note scribbled in the column in General Skywalker's familiar scrawl, barely legible to those not used to the General's chaotic energy. Go see the waterfalls on Zeltros. Zeltrons know how to party. -A.S.
Kix stares at the datapad as if it's a live grenade. His shoulders, which you hadn't even realized were perpetually tensed, seem to slump just a fraction.
"Zeltros," he says, the word sounding foreign on his tongue, a taste of something other than battlefield dust and recycled air. "He wants us to visit a pleasure planet."
"A beautiful, scenic pleasure planet with state-of-the-art resorts and excellent medical facilities," you add helpfully. "I checked. In case of... you know, relaxing emergencies."
He picks up the datapad, his thumb tracing the bright red approval stamp with a strange reverence. He doesn't look convinced. He looks tired. He looks like a man who's forgotten what a day off feels like.
"When?" he asks, the single word heavy with a hundred unspoken questions.
"Transport leaves in six hours," you say, unable to keep the beam out of your voice. "I've already cleared it with Rex. He's pulling two brothers from the 212th to cover your shifts. All you have to do is pack a bag and not think about bacta tanks for fourteen glorious days." You lean in closer, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I even bought you civilian clothes."
He finally looks up from the datapad, and for the first time, a real, genuine smile cracks through the weary resignation that usually holds court around his eyes. It's a small thing, but it transforms his face.
"You're a menace," he says, but the warmth in his tone takes the sting out of the words. He shakes his head, stepping closer to you, the clean, sharp scent of him washing over you. "An absolute menace to Republic bureaucracy and my carefully constructed sanity."
"And I'm your favorite menace," you counter, your smile widening as you hook a finger into one of the utility pouches on his belt and tug. "Admit it. If it wasn't for me, you'd be elbow-deep in a kriffing inventory spreadsheet right now."
You watch as the battle between duty and desire plays out across his features. The exhaustion is a heavy cloak, but the flicker of something else—hope, excitement, maybe even a little bit of mischief—fights to break free. He's so rarely given a chance to just be, to put down the responsibility of keeping everyone else alive and simply enjoy being alive himself. That's why you did it. That, and the selfish desire to have him all to yourself, somewhere far away from the war and its constant, grinding demands.
And to see him in something other than armor, of course. You have your priorities.
Finally, he sighs, a long, slow release of breath that seems to carry away a significant portion of the tension in his frame.
"Six hours," he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching. "That's not a lot of time to forget how to be a medic."
"You won't have to," you promise softly, stepping into the space he's just cleared between you. "You just have to remember how to be Kix. For me."
His gaze softens, and he lifts a hand, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that still has the power to steal your breath after four months of... whatever this is. This stolen, precious thing you've built in the belly of a warship.
"I'll try," he murmurs, and he leans in to kiss you. It's a kiss that tastes of relief and exhaustion and the faint, lingering promise of something more. It's a kiss that says, for a little while, we can pretend.
When he pulls back, there's a light in his eyes you haven't seen in a long, long time. The datapad is forgotten on the console.
"Alright," he says, and this time, the word is filled with a new kind of energy. "Let's go see some waterfalls."
As a traveling companion, Kix is a dream come true. His meticulous nature doesn't abandon him just because he's off-duty, and he's packed enough emergency supplies to survive a month on a hostile moon, much less two weeks on a pleasure planet. He unpacks the small kit on the journey, laying out antiseptic wipes, bacta patches, a dermal regenerator, and hydration packets with the solemnity of a high priest preparing for a ritual. He makes your packed sunscreen and three swimwear options look almost criminally unprepared.
"You do know Zeltros is a non-hostile planet with an overabundance of luxury resorts, right?" you ask from your spot on the small transport's plush sofa, watching him organize a field tourniquet. The package you purchased includes a full-service bar, and you've already helped yourself to something sweet and purple with an alarming amount of alcohol in it.
"And if one of those luxury resorts collapses?" he retorts without looking up from meticulously folding a sterile drape. "Or if you have an allergic reaction to a native fruit? Or if a sea squid with a paralytic neurotoxin tries to carry you off?" He folds the kit shut with a decisive snap. "I'm prepared. It's my job."
"Not for the next fourteen days," you remind him, swirling the purple liquid in your glass. "For the next fourteen days, your only job is to relax."
He sighs, and you recognize it as the long-suffering sigh he reserves for particularly stubborn patients. Still, he stows the kit away and sinks onto the sofa opposite you, the movement stiff and unnatural without the familiar weight of armor to anchor him. He's wearing the civilian clothes you picked out—a simple, dark blue tunic and comfortable black trousers—but he keeps fiddling with the hem as if he's not sure what to do with his hands.
"You don't have to relax right this second," you offer, sensing his discomfort. "We can... not relax together. For a bit."
A small smile touches his lips. "That's the most unconvincing offer for relaxation I've ever heard."
"I'm trying to ease you into it," you defend yourself. "It's a process. First, we stop working. Then, we start... not working. It's a delicate balance."
He shakes his head, but the smile lingers. He's still watching you, and the look in his eyes is one of genuine affection, tinged with that ever-present, gentle concern. After a moment, he seems to come to some sort of decision, and he holds out his hand.
"Come here," he says, his voice a low, soft command that sends a shiver down your spine.
You set your glass down and slide across the sofa, fitting yourself against his side. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close until your head rests on his shoulder. The blue fabric of his tunic is soft against your cheek, and he smells less like a medic and more like... well, just Kix. A clean, warm scent that you've grown to associate with safety and home.
"Okay," he murmurs into your hair. "This is a good start."
You hum in agreement, content to just sit there with him, watching the swirl of hyperspace streak by the viewport. The silence is comfortable, a rare luxury you've both learned to savor. For a while, the only sounds are the gentle hum of the transport and the steady, calming rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.
"You really went to all that trouble," he says after a long while, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. "With Skywalker, with the leave, and the clothes." He gestures vaguely to the tunic. "This isn't bad."
"I have excellent taste," you say, tilting your head to look up at him. His expression is soft, his guard down in a way it rarely is aboard the Resolute. The constant tension in his jaw has eased, and the lines around his eyes are less pronounced. He looks younger. Happier. You can't help but reach up and trace the line of his jaw with your thumb. "You look good out of armor, you know."
"I feel a bit... exposed," he admits, his gaze drifting down to his own hand resting on your arm. "Like I forgot how to walk without the weight of it."
"You'll get used to it," you say. "And in the meantime, I'll be here to protect you from any rogue sea squid."
He lets out a quiet laugh, a real one this time, and it's a sound you want to hear again and again. He tightens his arm around you, holding you a little closer.
"I'm holding you to that," he says, and then he leans down to kiss you.
This kiss is different from the one in the medbay. It's not about relief or stolen moments. It's slow and deep, a kiss that says we have all the time in the world. When he pulls back, you're both a little breathless.
"That," he says, his voice rough, "is a very good start."
The resort on Zeltros is everything the brochures promised and more. It's a sprawling complex of gleaming white buildings nestled into the side of a cliff, overlooking a crystal-clear turquoise sea. Waterfalls cascade down the rock face, their spray catching the sunlight and creating a constant, shimmering rainbow. The air is warm and humid, filled with the scent of exotic flowers and the sound of distant, upbeat music.
And everyone is beautiful. The Zeltrons, with their vibrant pink skin and easy smiles, are a sight to behold, but even the other tourists seem to glow with a certain kind of carefree joy that feels alien to you. You feel a bit like you've stumbled into a different dimension, one where the war doesn't exist and the greatest concern is which cocktail to order next.
Kix, predictably, looks overwhelmed. He's clutching your hand, his eyes wide as he takes in the immense chaos of it all. A group of Zeltrons in revealing swimwear just passed by, one of them blowing a kiss in your general direction. You smile and wave back, but Kix is already pulling you toward the relative safety of the check-in desk.
"This is... a lot," he murmurs in your ear, his grip on your hand tightening.
"It's great," you whisper back, grinning. "Just breathe. Try to absorb some of the happiness. It's contagious."
"I'm not sure my immune system is equipped for this level of contagious happiness," he mutters, but he follows you dutifully to the desk.
"You've survived 79's on a Benduday night," you tease gently. "This is nothing."
A Zeltron with shimmering, silver-painted skin and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps of Hoth greets you from behind the desk. "Welcome to the Azure Cascade! How may I make your stay absolutely perfect?"
You handle the check-in, your Zeltrosian phrasebook proving invaluable. The resort employee's smile widens as you stumble through a few sentences, and she hands you two keycards, each with a fragrant flower tucked into the sleeve.
"Room 704, overlooking the main falls," she says, her voice a melodious purr. "And the honeymoon suite is complimentary, a gift from us for our brave soldiers of the Republic."
Kix makes a noise somewhere between a choke and a squeak. You give him a reassuring pat on the back.
"Thank you," you say, beaming. "That's very... generous."
"We aim to please," she says, winking. "Enjoy your stay. Enjoy everything."
She says the last word with such a deliberate, suggestive lilt that even you feel a blush creeping up your neck. You grab the keycards and a flustered Kix and make a hasty retreat toward the lifts.
"Honeymoon suite?" he asks, once the doors have slid shut and you're ascending in a quiet, glass-walled bubble. "You didn't..."
"I didn't," you confirm, holding your hands up in mock innocence. You can admit to yourself that it would've been a funny prank to pull, but you didn't have the credits for that kind of upgrade. And you're already walking a fine line between helping him relax and giving him a full-blown panic attack. "Must be a standard policy for Republic personnel. A PR thing, you know? Boost morale."
“Morale. Right.”
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but he's too distracted by the view outside the lift to press the issue. The landscape unfolds beneath you, a breathtaking panorama of green cliffs, white sand, and impossibly blue water. It's a perfect, postcard vision of a world untouched by the ugliness of war.
The lift opens directly into your room. And it is, without a doubt, the most luxurious place you have ever seen. The room you'd booked was a simple 'deluxe ocean view,' but this is something else entirely. The entire far wall is made of transparisteel, offering an uninterrupted, spectacular view of the main waterfall as it thunders into the sea below. A huge, round bed sits in the center of the room, draped in sheer white fabric that billows in the faint breeze from an open balcony. A sunken tub, large enough for four, is sunken into the floor near the window, an array of bottled oils and soaps arranged artfully beside it.
Kix stops dead just inside the doorway, one hand clutching both your duffel bags and the other holding his small emergency kit to his chest like a security blanket. He looks utterly lost.
"This is not a standard morale boost,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “This is…what is this?”
You drop your bags and walk straight for the balcony, stepping out into the warm, humid air. The roar of the falls is a constant, soothing presence, and the fine mist cools your skin. Below, the resort's private beach is dotted with lounge chairs and brightly colored umbrellas, Zeltrons and other guests splash in the resort's infinity pools. It's all so vibrant, so alive. After the recycled air and metal corridors of a Star Destroyer, it feels like a sensory overload in the best possible way.
You lean on the railing and look at him over your shoulder. He's still standing in the middle of the room, a statue carved from granite and confusion. You try your best not to smile too widely.
"Well, General Skywalker did say they know how to party," you call over the sound of the water. "Come on, we're not going to get our deposit back."
Kix hesitates for a full minute longer before setting the bags down by the door and walking cautiously toward you, as if the plush white carpet might give way to a trapdoor at any moment. He joins you at the railing, standing close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the view as he grips the metal tightly. He's still too stiff, too much like a soldier on sentry duty. You can feel the thrum of tension radiating off him. He's not here yet. Not really.
"It's beautiful," he offers after a beat, but it sounds like a clinical observation, like he's diagnosing the view. "The geological formation is impressive. The water pressure must be immense."
You turn to face him, leaning back against the railing. "Kix."
He meets your gaze, and you see it there again. The exhaustion, the weight of a hundred battles and a thousand injuries he couldn't fix. He's standing in paradise, but he's still stuck in a medbay.
"Your job is to look at that waterfall," you say, your voice firm but gentle. "And think 'Wow, that's pretty.' That's it. No diagnostics. No tactical analysis. Just... 'wow.' Can you do that for me?"
He stares at you, and for a moment, you think he's going to retreat behind the wall of medical professionalism he hides behind so well. But then he lets out a slow breath, and some of the rigidity leaves his shoulders. He looks past you, at the thundering cascade of water, and really looks at it.
"Wow," he says, and the word is quiet, a little rusty, but it's genuine.
A small victory. You'll take it.
"Good," you smile as you step closer and placing your hands on his chest. The blue tunic is soft beneath your palms. "Now, step two in Operation Make Kix Relax."
"Does this step involve less clothing?" he asks, a glint of the old, mischievous Kix returning to his eyes. His hand settles on your waist, and his thumb begins to stroke distracting circles against your hip. "Because I'm starting to suspect your motives."
"Excellent clinical assessment," you purr, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "But for now, step two involves getting this med kit out of sight." You gesture to the bag still clutched in his hand like a lifeline. "It goes in the closet. You're not allowed to touch it for the next fourteen days unless there's a genuine, life-or-death emergency. Me getting a sunburn does not count."
He huffs out a laugh, the sound a little more relaxed this time. "But you did bring sunscreen, right? With a high SPF? The UV index here has to be off the charts."
He’s already scanning the horizon as if he can calculate the radiation levels with his eyes. The medic in him is a hard beast to put down.
"See? This is exactly what I'm talking about," you say, taking the kit from him and marching it over to a large, ornate wardrobe. You open it, place the offending bag inside, and shut the doors with a decisive click. "There. It's in vacation jail."
When you turn back, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite decipher. It's fondness, certainly, but there's something else, something deeper and more vulnerable swimming in those dark eyes of his.
"I don't know how to do this," he admits, his voice low. Kix gestures around the room, a motion that somehow encompasses not just the lavish suite, but the entire planet, the entire concept of peace. "Just... be."
"Then I'll be for both of us," you say simply. You walk back to him, stopping just short of touching. "You don't have to do anything. You don't have to solve anything or fix anything or be responsible for anyone. You just have to be here. With me. Let me take care of you for once."
The vulnerability in his gaze intensifies, and he finally, truly, seems to let go of that last thread of control. He reaches out, not to touch you, but to trace the delicate petals of a flower resting on the bedside table. His touch is tentative, exploratory, as if he's forgotten how to interact with a world that isn't trying to kill him.
"Alright," he says, the word a surrender. "What's step three?"
You look around the room, your gaze darting from the ornate bed, to the ornate tub, to the ornate minibar. So many options. But one seems most pressing. The afternoon sun is warm on the balcony, the roar of the waterfall a soothing backdrop. It’s too perfect a day to waste indoors.
"Step three," you declare, a playful grin spreading across your face, "is you, me, and dinner overlooking that—" You point a dramatic finger at the falls "—while consuming ridiculously overpriced drinks with little umbrellas in them."
He gives a small, weary shake of his head, but a real smile is playing on his lips now. "You're determined to corrupt me."
"Call it therapeutic immersion," you reply, grabbing your duffel and unceremoniously dumping it on the bed. You rummage through it, past your sunscreen and three swimsuits, until you find a simple, flowing wrap dress, the color of a sunset. Kix perks up at the sight of the swimsuits, an appreciative glint in his eye that makes your stomach flutter.
"So that's what you packed," he says, leaning against the bedpost. He looks more relaxed already, the clean civilian lines no longer feeling like an alien skin he's been forced into. "Any other... tactical outfits I should be briefed on?"
"I have a whole roster," you tease, holding up a string bikini that's more straps than fabric. His eyebrows shoot up. "But this one is for later reconnaissance."
"Right. Reconnaissance," he repeats, swallowing hard. "I'll need to inspect those later. For quality control."
"Of course," you say, and you toss the bikini back in the bag with a wink. "But for now, I'm starving. Get dressed. We have a date with a sunset."
Kix pushes himself off the bedpost, moving with a newfound fluidity. He finds his own bag and, with a final, longing glance at the locked wardrobe, pulls out a fresh set of clothes. You wait until his back is turned before pulling out the lingerie you'd packed as a surprise, tucking it under the dress folded on your arm with a secret smile. This trip was for him, but that didn't mean you couldn't have a little fun, too.
You disappear into the refresher to change, leaving the door open a crack. The room is as opulent as the rest of the suite, with a shower that has at least a dozen different spray settings and a mirror that doesn't just show your reflection but seems to enhance it. You take a moment to splash water on your face, the coolness a welcome shock against your skin.
For a second, the sterile scent of the water reminds you of the medbay, and you see a flicker of that old tension in your mind. You push it away before it can blossom. If you're going to be the anchor of normalcy for him, you have to believe in it yourself.
You slip into the lace undergarments and the dress, and when you step out, Kix is standing by the transparisteel wall, fully dressed, staring out at the view. He's wearing a dark grey shirt, slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and the fabric clings to his shoulders in a way that makes you want to forget all about dinner.
Kix turns as you approach, and the air in the room shifts. His gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, and the appreciation in his eyes is so pure, so intense, it feels like a physical touch. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. The slight parting of his lips, the way the tension drains from his face, replaced by something else entirely... it's a compliment more eloquent than any words.
"Ready?" you ask, your voice more breathless than you intended.
He nods, still looking at you. He closes the distance between you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he smells of clean fabric and the faint, warm scent of his own skin.
"You look..." he starts, then seems to change his mind. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'm reconsidering my priorities. Dinner seems... secondary."
You laugh, a low, throaty sound. "We have fourteen days, medic. I promise, you'll have plenty of opportunities to reconsider. But I'm taking you out to eat. You need sustenance. I have plans for you later."
"Plans," he repeats, a wicked smile spreading slowly across his face. It's a look you've rarely seen, a side of him he keeps locked away under layers of duty and exhaustion. You decide you're going to do everything in your power to see it more often. "Should I be concerned?"
"Definitely," you whisper, then pull back. "But later. Now, we go. Umbrella drinks await."
The walk to the resort's primary restaurant is a sensory experience in itself. The path is paved with smooth, pale stones that glow softly as evening descends. The air is thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the faint, rhythmic thump of distant music. More Zeltrons and other guests stroll past, their laughter echoing through the lush gardens that line the path. You even spot a few exotic birds and insects with bioluminescent shells, their tiny lights dotting the foliage like fairy lights.
Kix walks beside you, his hand holding yours, but you can feel the coiled energy in him. He's on high alert, cataloging everything. You see him watching a group of children chasing a glowing orb, a faint, nostalgic smile on his face, before his eyes are drawn to a couple kissing by a fountain, and his expression tightens almost imperceptibly. He's a spectator to a life he's never been allowed to live, and it's bittersweet to witness.
"You're thinking," you say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Stop it."
"Sorry," he says, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Habit. Hard to break."
"I know," you say softly. You bump your shoulder against his arm. "So let me give you something else to focus on. Tell me something. Something that has nothing to do with the war. Anything."
He's quiet for a moment, the sounds of the resort filling the space between you. You think he's not going to answer, that you've pushed too far. But then he speaks, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.
"Before," he starts, and you know he means before the war, before the armor gained its weight. "I used to read. A lot. Not just tactical manuals and medical journals. Everything. Old myths, histories, poetry. There was this one poet, from Corellia. His work was... sad. But beautiful."
You're stunned into silence. You've been friends for a long time now, closer than you ever imagined you'd be, but he's never spoken of this. You've only ever known the medic, the soldier, the reliable, steady-handed rock of the 501st. This glimpse of the boy he might have been is a gift.
"Tell me one," you prompt, your voice barely above a whisper.
He glances at you, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
“I can’t remember most of it,” he says as he shifts uncomfortably. You can tell it’s a lie, but you don’t push it. “But…there was a line. Something about ‘holding the light of a dying star in your hands, and knowing you were never meant to keep it.’”
The words hang in the warm night air, heavy with a melancholy that feels completely out of place on a planet dedicated to joy. You understand, then, a piece of him you never had before. The constant pressure of being the one who holds others, who tries to mend what is broken, knowing all the while that some things are beyond repair. Some lights, some lives, are meant to fade.
You stop walking and turn to face him, lacing your fingers through his. The path is empty here, secluded by a curtain of fragrant, flowering vines.
"You're not a dying star, Kix."
He looks down at your joined hands, then back up at your face. His expression is unreadable, a complex tapestry of old pain and new vulnerability.
"Aren't we all?" he asks, and there's no self-pity in the question, only a quiet, weary truth.
"Not tonight," you say, and you stand on your toes to kiss him. You put all the reassurance you have into it, all the hope you're hoarding for him. You pour it into him until you feel some of the tension leave his body, until he kisses you back with a matching tenderness. A silent exchange. A fragile ceasefire.
You pull apart, breathless. His eyes are closed for a moment longer, and when he opens them, the war-weariness has receded slightly, pushed back by the artificial twilight of the resort.
"Okay," he says, and the corner of his mouth quirks. "Okay."
The restaurant, The Glimmering Grotto, is built into a cave behind a smaller waterfall, the entrance framed by curtains of cascading water. Inside, the cavern glows with the light of thousands of luminous crystals embedded in the rock walls. The air is cool and smells of damp stone and roasting meats, and both of you are stunned into silence by the sheer wonder of it all.
A Zeltron hostess, this one with deep magenta skin and a cascade of silver hair, leads you to a table on a private balcony overlooking the main resort, giving you a perfect view of the moonlit sea and the distant, majestic falls. Kix is quiet, but he's no longer cataloging threats. He's simply looking. At the glowing crystals, at the moon's reflection on the water, at you. The tight set of his jaw has finally, finally, relaxed.
He catches your eye as you’re about to take your seat and hurries closer, pulling out your chair. The small, old-fashioned gesture makes your heart do a stupid little flip. His look of quiet concentration melts into something more mischievous, and he leans in as you settle, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear.
“You look breathtaking,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. “I’m having a hard time believing you’re real.”
“Believe it,” you whisper back, a shiver tracing a path down your spine that has nothing to do with the cool cave air.
Kix straightens up, the pleased, predatory glint in his eye promising much more than just dinner. You have a feeling your plans for the evening are about to be co-opted. Not that you're complaining.
A waiter appears, a handsome Devaronian male with two small, gem-like horns protruding from his forehead and a smile that’s full of teeth and good intentions. He lists the specials with theatrical flair, and then it's your turn. Kix, who has been staring at the menu as if it's written in an ancient, dead language, finally looks up. The look of sheer panic is so out of place on his face that you have to stifle a laugh.
“Get whatever looks good,” he says, pushing the menu across the table to you. “Please.”
“Alright,” you say, taking mercy on him. “But you have to promise to try a bite of everything.”
He nods, already looking relieved to have the responsibility taken off his hands. You order for you both—a selection of grilled local fish, spiced fruit that sizzles in a hot stone bowl, and a carafe of something blue and bubbly the waiter swears is a local delicacy. And, of course, two cocktails.
The drinks arrive first. They are, as promised, ridiculous. Yours is a lurid green concoction in a tall, curvy glass, adorned with a slice of cactus fruit and a small, paper parasol that seems to defy physics. Kix’s is a deep red, served in a smoking glass that adds a dramatic flair to the proceedings. He picks it up, eyeing the purple smoke curling from its surface with the same suspicion he’d reserve for an unexploded ordnance.
“Therapeutic immersion,” you remind him, raising your glass. “To step three.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but he raises his glass and clinks it against yours. The sound is a delicate chime that hangs in the air. He takes a tentative sip, and his eyebrows rise far enough to nearly touch his hairline.
“That’s…” He coughs discretely into his fist. “That’s surprisingly strong.”
“It’s a pleasure planet, Kix. They don’t mess around,” you say, taking a long, satisfying sip of your own. The drink is sweet, tangy, and kicks like a blaster bolt. Perfect. You take the little paper umbrella and tuck it behind his ear. He doesn’t even flinch, just gives you a long-suffering look that’s completely undone by the faint smile playing on his lips. The umbrella looks absurdly jaunty against the close crop of his hair. You want to kiss him again.
“It’s not so bad once you get past the smoke and the fact that it tastes like fermented berries and coolant,” he says, taking another, more confident sip. “Alright. I admit it. This is… nice.”
“Nice?” you challenge playfully. “We’re in a glowing cave behind a waterfall, drinking cocktails that could power a landspeeder, and all you’ve got is ‘nice’?”
He reaches across the table, his fingers finding yours. His touch is warm, a solid anchor in the fantastical surroundings.
“You're right,” he concedes, his gaze dropping to where your hands are joined. “It’s better than nice. It feels… like a dream. Like something that might happen if you’re unconscious in a bacta tank for too long.”
The comment, so casual, lands with a heavy thud in the middle of your perfect evening. The image it conjures is not pleasant. You tighten your grip on his hand.
“Hey,” you say, your voice low. “No bacta talk. That’s rule one. We’re on Zeltros. We’re happy. We’re… whole.”
He looks up, a flicker of apology in his dark eyes. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
“I know,” you say, softening your tone. You give him a small smile. “So let’s make a new habit. For the next fourteen days, your only habit is letting me spoil you.”
“Deal,” he says, and he means it. You can see it in the way he finally lets his shoulders rest, in the way he stops scanning the room for exits and injuries. He’s starting to drift with you, to let go. "But I'm spoiling you right back. Just so we're clear."
"I'm counting on it," you purr.
The food arrives, and it’s a feast for the senses. The fish is flaky and spiced with something bright and citrusy, the fruit sizzles and pops in its stone bowl, releasing clouds of aromatic steam. You coax him through the meal, offering him bites from your fork, making him try everything. He’s a good sport, even when he wrinkles his nose at a piece of fruit that’s a little too fermented for his taste.
“Nope.” He quickly shakes his head. “That’s an acquired taste I have no intention of acquiring.”
“More for me, then,” you laugh, popping the offending piece of fruit into your own mouth and following the trail of juice up your thumb with your tongue. His eyes follow the motion, and the easy-going warmth in them darkens into something more intense. The small, paper umbrella tucked behind his ear suddenly seems incredibly foolish.
“You know,” he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the table, “for someone who claims their only goal is to make me relax, you’re doing an excellent job of counteracting that.”
You raise an eyebrow, taking another deliberate sip of your lurid green drink. “Am I?”
“Yes,” he replies, leaning forward. He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers, a brand against your skin. “You are.”
The air between you crackles, the bustling sounds of the restaurant fading into a dull hum. The glowing crystals on the cavern walls blur into a soft, shimmering haze. All you can see is him. The way the dim light catches the angle of his jaw, the dark promise in his eyes. He’s no longer the weary medic from the Resolute. He’s just a man, looking at the woman he wants, with no war, no duty, no brothers to save standing in the way. It’s intoxicating.
“We could…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. The question hangs in the air, a physical presence between you. We could leave now. We could go back to the room. We could stop pretending this is just about dinner.
You want to. You really, really want to. But this isn't just about want. This is about him, about peeling back the layers of armor he’s worn for a lifetime, layer by layer. And rushing this, letting it be just another stolen, desperate encounter, would be a disservice to the fragile, beautiful thing you’re trying to build. It would just be another mission objective, another task to complete.
You place your hand over his, stopping its slow, tantalizing journey down your neck. He stills, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
“Later,” you say, your voice soft but firm. You turn your head, pressing a kiss into the palm of his hand. “I promise. But we’re not finished here.”
You pull away slowly, giving him a look that is all reassurance and simmering promise. He leans back in his chair, a small, wry smile touching his lips. He understands. He gives a short nod, a silent acknowledgment of your lead.
“You’re a cruel woman,” he says, but the warmth in his tone takes the bite out of the word. He picks up his smoking glass and drains the rest of it in one go, a decisiveness in the action that makes you smile.
“I’m patient,” you correct him. “And I have a plan. Step four, to be precise.”
“Step four,” he repeats, setting the glass down with a soft click. He looks intrigued now, the brief frustration forgotten, replaced by a playful curiosity. His elbows rest on the table, and he leans forward, chin propped on his steepled fingers. “Lay it on me, General.”
You laugh, delighted by this new, playful side of him. You gesture with your glass toward the view, the moon a silver coin on the black velvet of the sea.
“We’re going to walk on the beach.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Walk on the beach.” He says it like you’ve just proposed a tactical assault on a Separatist dreadnought. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” you confirm. “We’re going to walk on the beach, under the moon, and do nothing. Nothing at all. Just listen to the water. We can even take our shoes off.”
The last part is delivered with dramatic flair, but the look on his face is one of genuine consideration. He’s a soldier. To him, idleness is a weakness. To plan for nothingness is a concept so foreign it might as well be a different language. He’s weighing it, testing its heft in his mind.
“Alright,” he says finally, the word a quiet acceptance. “Walk on the beach. No objective, no destination, no timetable. Sounds… inefficient.”
“It’s called a vacation, Kix. Efficiency is the enemy,” you say, finishing the last of your own drink and standing up. You hold your hand out to him. “Shall we?”
He takes your hand, his grip firm and sure, and lets you lead him out of the glowing grotto and back into the warm, perfumed night. The resort’s pathways are even more magical in the moonlight, the glowing stones casting a soft, ethereal glow around you. He’s still holding your hand, but the tension is back in his shoulders, a subtle coiling of muscle that tells you he’s scanning, assessing, waiting for the other boot to drop.
“It’s quiet,” he murmurs, as you step onto the soft, white sand of the private beach. The roar of the waterfall is a distant bass note, a constant, rhythmic pulse. The only other sounds are the gentle lapping of waves against the shore and the faint rustle of palm fronds in the breeze. There are a few other people scattered along the beach, their forms dark silhouettes against the moonlit water, but they’re far enough away to feel like part of another world. The sand is cool beneath your feet, and you sigh, a long, slow release of breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“It’s supposed to be quiet,” you say softly, kicking off your sandals and letting your toes sink into the cool sand near the water’s edge. You tug on his hand, a silent invitation. “Come on. Get in touch with your inner civilian.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound barely audible over the gentle lapping of waves, but he obliges and bends down to unlace his own sturdy boots. He sets them neatly together by the path with his socks shoved inside, a small act of order in a world of chaos, before stepping onto the sand.
Kix moves stiffly at first, his bare feet sinking into the unfamiliar softness with a look of mild distrust, as if the sand might give way. But then you feel it happen. He takes another step, and then another, and the tension in his grip on your hand begins to ebb. He looks down, watching the pale foam of a wave rush over his ankles, and a slow smile spreads across his face.
“No sea squids,” he says, wiggling his toes in the wet sand. “I’m disappointed. I was all prepared.”
“We can hope they’re having a quiet night in,” you tease with a giggle, leading him closer to the water’s edge. The gentle waves foam around your ankles and then recede, leaving a cool, damp trail on your skin. The water is surprisingly warm, like liquid silk.
You walk in comfortable silence for a while, your hands swinging gently between you. You don’t push him to talk, don't try to fill the quiet with chatter. You just let him be. Let him feel the sand between his toes, the water on his ankles, the cool night air on his face. Let him absorb the simple, profound peace of it all.
After a while, you feel some of the stiffness leave him. His grip on your hand loosens, becomes more natural, less like a lifeline and more like a connection. He even stops scanning the shoreline for potential threats.
“Okay,” he says, the word a soft exhalation. “This is… also not bad.”
“‘Also not bad’?” you repeat, laughing softly. “You’re a hard man to impress, medic.”
“Not true,” he says, stopping to face you. He uses your joined hand to pull you closer, until you’re standing in the shallow water, the moonlight painting your faces in silver. “You impress me all the time.”
The sincerity in his voice, the way he’s looking at you, takes your breath away. He’s not just playing along anymore. He’s here. Present. His gaze is a warm, steady weight that makes your heart beat a little faster.
“Me?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “What did I do?”
“You did this,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his free hand to the beach, the moon, the entire improbable paradise around you. “You remembered me. When I forget how to be anything but a medic, you remember. And you… drag me back. Kicking and screaming, sometimes,” he adds with a wry smile. “But you do it.”
The unspoken thing, the truth you’ve both been circling for months, hangs between you, shimmering in the moonlight like the heat haze off a hot engine. It’s more than just affection. It’s more than a shipboard fling to pass the long, dark nights between battles. It’s a declaration, as quiet and as profound as the tide itself.
You don't trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can do. You lean in and capture his lips in a soft kiss, your hands cradling his jaw. Kix's arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your chest. He’s solid, real, and completely, utterly yours in this moment.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a small, contented smile on his lips.
“I love you,” he says, the words so quiet they’re almost lost in the sound of the waves. But you hear them. You feel them all the way down to your soul. “Probably should’ve said that a while ago.”
A laugh bubbles up from your chest. You tighten your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You can feel the vibration of his own laugh against your cheek.
“Yes, you probably should have,” you mumble into his skin. “You’re a medic. You’re supposed to be good at diagnosis.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the love you see in his eyes is so bright, so overwhelming, it feels like staring into the sun. “I was… distracted. By the patient.”
“Distracting is my specialty,” you whisper. You brush a stray grain of sand from his cheek. “I love you too, you know. Just in case it wasn't obvious.”
His smile widens. “The threats, the kidnapping, the over-the-top vacation… it was all a little subtle, but I had my suspicions.”
You gently swat his arm, but your heart feels so full it might just burst. You’ve been fighting for so long, for the Republic, for the clones, for the next day, the next breath, that you’d forgotten what it felt like to fight for something purely, selfishly for yourself. And here it is. Standing right in front of you, sand in his hair and a ridiculous paper umbrella tucked behind his ear.
Kix captures your hand and pushes it away, before he wraps his arms around your back and squeezes, lifting you slightly off your feet. The gesture is so uncharacteristically playful, so full of life, that it sends another wave of happiness washing over you. He sets you down, but he doesn't let go, just lets out a soft chuckle and presses his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply.
“Diagnosis confirmed, then,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your temple. “Prognosis is...complicated.”
“Let me guess,” you say as you lean back to meet his gaze. “The treatment involves two weeks on a pleasure planet and complete and total submission to my every whim?”
“Something like that,” he agrees, dark eyes dancing in the moonlight. “And maybe a few of my own whims, thrown in for good measure.”
You grin, feeling reckless and bold and so incredibly in love it hurts. “Oh, really? And what kind of whims would those be?”
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he bends down and scoops you up as if you weigh nothing. You let out a surprised squeal, looping your arms around his neck as he turns and starts walking back up the beach, his bare feet making steady, determined prints in the wet sand.
“Kix! What are you doing?” you laugh as he carries you effortlessly toward the path. The little paper umbrella, which has miraculously stayed tucked behind his ear this whole time, finally gives up the ghost and flutters down onto the sand, a tiny, colorful casualty of the night.
“Executing step five,” he says, his tone a delicious blend of authority and amusement. His hand slides up the back of your thighs, resting high and possessively on the curve of your backside. “Your plan was excellent. But I’m making an amendment.”
“And what amendment is that?” you ask, nuzzling against the warm skin of his neck, tasting the salt on him.
“Taking you back to that ridiculously opulent room and showing you just how much I appreciate your medical expertise.”
Heat pools in your stomach, a slow, liquid fire. You lean in, nipping at the sensitive skin just below his ear. He shudders, but his stride doesn't falter. He’s all smooth, confident strength, a man who has finally reclaimed the part of himself that knows what he wants and how to get it. This isn't the tired medic from the Resolute. This is a man on a mission, and you are the glorious objective.
“Hurry up, then,” you murmur against his skin. “My prognosis for patience is running low.”
Kix laughs, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through you. He doesn't hurry, though. He takes his time, carrying you through the glowing gardens and back toward the gleaming white structure of the resort, pausing only to grab both your shoes as he goes. A few Zeltrons you pass cheer him on with suggestive calls and knowing smiles, which he ignores with a focused intensity that sends another thrill through you. His world has narrowed to just this: you in his arms, and the promise of the night ahead.
The lift ride back to the seventh floor is a torturous ascent that feels infinite with anticipation crawling under your skin. He sets you down, but he cages you against the glass wall, his hands on either side of your head. He doesn’t kiss you, just looks at you, his gaze a tangible weight that traces the line of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips. The moonlit world outside the bubble is a forgotten backdrop to the private universe you've created in this tiny space.
"Stop looking at me like that," you breathe, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You can feel the frantic thumping of his own heart, a betraying echo of your own.
"Like what?" he asks, though he knows perfectly well. He leans in, his lips hovering just millimeters from yours. "Like I've been waiting half my life for this?"
"Like you're about to devour me."
“Kriff, I hope so,” he whispers, and then the lift doors open, breaking the spell.
He takes your hand again, his grip urgent, and pulls you down the hallway to your door. You fumble with the keycard, your hands shaking with anticipation as he crowds your back, his breath hot on your neck. The lock beeps, and you stumble into the room, kicking the door shut behind you. The room is dark, save for the brilliant moonlight streaming through the massive transparisteel wall, bathing everything in a soft, silvery glow.
You turn to face him, but he’s already on you. He walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of the ridiculously opulent bed, and you teeter, falling back onto the soft, white coverlet. He follows you down, bracing himself on his arms above you, a predator poised over his prey. The look in his eyes is pure, unadulterated hunger, and it makes you feel more alive than the heat of a dozen battlefields.
“Hi,” you say, a breathless, stupid little laugh escaping your lips. The romance novels always made this moment seem so much more graceful, but this… this is messy and desperate and real. Just like every other stolen moment you've ever had with him, only this time, there’s nowhere to run. Nothing to pull you away.
“Hi yourself,” he murmurs, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. He lowers his head, but instead of kissing your lips, he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of your throat. Your back arches off the bed, a soft gasp escaping you. “Did I mention I love this dress?”
“I think you might’ve hinted at it,” you manage, your fingers tangling in the front of his shirt. You want it gone. You want to feel his skin against yours, right now.
He seems to read your mind, because he pushes himself up, kneeling between your legs. He takes a moment to just look at you, stretched out on the bed, your hair fanned out around you, the thin fabric of your dress clinging to your curves. His gaze is so intense, so full of reverence, it makes you feel like the most precious thing in the galaxy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, the words a rough, heartfelt whisper. “You know that, right?”
“Come up here and I’ll show you just how beautiful I can be,” you taunt, reaching for him. He laughs, a low, husky sound, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he reaches for the hem of your dress, his fingers tracing the line of your thigh with a touch that’s barely there, but sets your skin on fire.
“All in good time,” he says, his gaze fixed on yours. “I’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight. And for the next fourteen days.”
He slowly, deliberately, pushes the fabric of your dress up, inch by agonizing inch. When the dress is bunched around your waist, he finally gets a glimpse of the lingerie you’d picked out with such care. It’s a simple set of black lace, delicate and feminine, a stark contrast to the soldier’s world you both inhabit.
His breath hitches. He just stares for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw working. Then he lets out a low groan and squeezes his eyes shut, and the sound goes straight to your core.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he says, his voice strained. He opens his eyes and pins you with an intense stare. “That’s the only explanation. This is all an elaborate plot to send a medic into cardiac arrest.”
“The treatment for that is usually more of the same, I’m told,” you quip as you prop yourself up on your elbows. Your confidence is a fragile thing, built on the solid foundation of the want in his eyes, but it’s there for as long as he looks at you like that. “Don’t stop now. Finish your examination.”
He grins, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. He’s a man in his element, the exhaustion and anxiety of the past few hours burned away by a fire that you started. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your knee, then to the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh. You gasp and let your head fall back as he works his way higher, his lips and tongue tracing a path of fire against your skin. As he reaches the spot where your thigh meets your hip, just a breath away from where you want him most, he stops.
“Kix,” you breathe, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Please.”
“Patience,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m a very thorough professional.”
You’re about to make a snappy comeback about malpractice, but then he finally, finally touches you. His fingers brush against the damp lace of your panties, and a jolt of pure electricity shoots through you. You arch your back, a silent plea for more. He obliges, stroking you through the fabric in a maddening rhythm that has you gasping for breath. He watches your face, his eyes dark and intense, cataloging your every reaction.
“You’re so wet for me,” he whispers, a note of awe in his voice. “And I’ve barely even touched you.”
“I’ve been waiting for this,” you pant as your hips rock against his hand. “For us. Without a ship to catch or a trooper knocking on the door.”
“Me too,” he says, and there’s a raw honesty in his voice that almost breaks your heart. “Fuck, me too.”
He finally pulls the lace aside and slides a finger inside you, and you cry out at the overwhelming sensation. He hooks his finger, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and a second one joins the first. He sets a relentless pace, his thumb circling your clit, pushing you higher and higher until you’re teetering on the edge of a precipice in mere minutes, your breath coming in short, sharp pants.
It seems in your weeks of careful planning, you’d underestimated him. You were worried about him being too tense, too wound up to ever truly let go, but you never considered the other side of that coin. You should have been worried about what would happen when the coil finally sprang free. He’s all focused intensity and confidence, a surgeon’s precision applied to the art of pleasure, and suddenly you realize exactly what you signed up for for fourteen days straight. The thought is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a low growl. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “I want to see you when you come.”
That’s all it takes. His words, the look in his eyes, the expert movements of his hands, it’s all too much. The world shatters into a million pieces, and you cry out his name as your orgasm washes over you in a powerful, all-consuming wave. It’s a long, slow, devastating thing, and he works you through it, his movements gentle now, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from your trembling body.
When you finally come back to yourself, he’s hovering over you, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. He gently pulls his fingers away, and you watch, transfixed, as he brings them to his lips and licks them clean.
“That’s one,” Kix announces in a low, husky purr. “Only about…” He looks off in the distance as if calculating, a wry grin forming on his lips. “...a hundred and ninety-three more to go before this trip is over.”
You’re still boneless, your body humming with aftershocks, but you manage a weak laugh. “You’re insane.”
“You’re the one who booked a fourteen-day vacation with a clone who’s been on active duty for the duration of a kriffing galactic war,” he says, leaning down to nip at your earlobe. His fingers find the tie of your dress at your hip, and he tugs it open. “What did you expect?”
“I expected,” you say, getting a surge of energy and rolling him over with surprising force, so that you’re now straddling his waist, “to be in charge. This was my plan, remember? Operation Make Kix Relax. And right now, you seem far too tense.”
His eyebrows shoot up in delight, and he settles back against the pillows, folding his hands behind his head. The motion stretches the fabric of his shirt taut across his chest, outlining the lean, hard muscle beneath. He’s a beautiful sight, sharp angles and coiled strength, a predator enjoying the turn of the tables.
“By all means,” he says, his voice a velvet challenge. “Continue with your therapeutic treatment. I’m your willing patient.”
You grin, leaning down to press a quick, hard kiss to his lips. He tries to deepen it, to take control, but you pull back, just out of reach. You can feel the hard line of his cock pressing against you through your clothes, a thrilling reminder of where this is all heading, and you shift your hips just enough to make his smirk falter. Just enough to make him groan.
Slowly, you reach for the hem of your dress and pull it over your head, tossing it aside to join your discarded dignity on the floor. You’re left in just the black lace and the necklace he once bought you on a rare day ’s leave, its silver chain catching the moonlight. His gaze on you is so intense it’s a physical caress, and you feel a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.
“Better?” you ask, running your hands slowly down your own body, from your throat to your hips, tracing the lines of your lace-covered breasts as you go. You watch as he swallows hard, as a muscle in his jaw tics with restraint. He thinks he’s about to be in charge again, but you're not letting it go that easily.
He starts to sit up, reaching for you, but you shake your head, placing a firm hand on the center of his chest and pushing him back down onto the bed. He lets you, but there’s a dangerous, hungry glint in his eyes now.
“No,” you say softly. “My turn to look.”
You take your time, tracing the seam of his shirt with one finger before settling on the top button. He watches you, his breath held tight, as you slowly, methodically, undo each one. You press a kiss to each new inch of skin you reveal—the hollow of his throat, the flat plane of his chest, the hard ridges of his stomach. He’s silent, but you can feel the tremor that runs through him, the effort it takes for him to lie still and let you explore. The necklace drags a cool, teasing line over his warm skin, and you dip your head to follow it with your tongue.
When the last button is undone, you push the shirt open, revealing him to you in the moonlight. He’s a tapestry of scars, a map of the war written on his body in silvery lines and faded pockmarks. There’s the jagged tear on his ribs from a piece of shrapnel on Ryloth, the neat, circular burn on his shoulder from a blaster bolt on Geonosis. You’ve seen them before, in the frantic, clinical moments of field treatment and stolen moments in the dark of your bunk, but you’ve never really *looked*. You lean down and press a soft, reverent kiss to the scar above his navel, then to one just below his collarbone.
“I love you,” you whisper against his skin. “I love all of you.”
Kix lets out a shuddering breath, a sound that’s half-sigh, half-sob. He reaches up and cups the back of your head, holding you against him. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something, but he just threads his fingers through your hair, a gesture of such raw, unguarded affection that it makes your chest ache.
You decide to give him a break. You pull back, your hands moving to the waistband of his trousers. He lifts his hips, helping you as you pull both them and his briefs down, freeing him.
An appreciative hum rumbles in your chest at the sight of him, hard and ready, a testament to his desire for you. You want to taste him, to feel him in your mouth until he’s a quivering mess, but you also want this to last. You want to draw it out, to make him lose himself in you so completely that all the ghosts of the war are banished, if only for a night.
So instead, you reach behind you and unhook your bra, letting it fall away. His eyes go dark, his gaze fixed on your breasts. You slide off his lap, shucking your soaked panties in one fluid motion, before climbing back onto the bed. You straddle him again, this time with nothing between you. The feeling of his bare skin against yours is an electrifying burn that makes you both gasp.
Kix’s hands find your hips, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. He looks up at you, his eyes wide, a plea on his lips. He’s done with your game, done with the slow, deliberate torture. He wants you. Now.
But you’re not quite finished with him. You lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, and rub yourself against the length of him, slow and torturous. He’s slick with your need, and the friction is a delicious agony that has you both panting. You do it again, and again, setting a rhythm that’s as much for your own pleasure as it is for his.
"Maker," he groans, his head thrown back against the pillows. "I didn’t—kriff—realize torture was on the approved medical procedures list."
“It’s a new experimental treatment,” you whisper, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you rock against him. Your own control is fraying, the coiled heat in your stomach demanding more than this maddening tease. You want him inside you, filling you, completing you. “And this is just the beginning. I haven’t even brought out the handcuffs yet.”
That gets a reaction. His cock twitches hard against you, and a raw, guttural sound escapes his lips. He grips your hips tighter, stilling your movements. He’s had enough.
"Game's over," Kix growls, and with a strength that takes your breath away, he flips you over, pinning you beneath him.
He settles between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging at your entrance as he hooks your knees over his arms, opening you completely to him. He looks down at you, his chest heaving, a wild, feral look in his eyes. The gentle, patient medic from earlier is gone, replaced by a man who knows exactly what he wants, and is about to take it.
“Say it again,” he demands, his voice a low, rough command.
You know what he wants to hear. The words you whispered to him on the beach, the words that have been the unspoken truth between you for months. You reach up, cupping the back of his neck, and pull him down until your lips are almost touching.
“I love you, Kix,” you whisper. “I’ve always loved you.”
It’s all the permission he needs. He slams into you, a single, powerful thrust that seats him to the hilt. You cry out at the overwhelming fullness of him, your head falling back against the pillows. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every hard, perfect inch of him. He’s panting, his forehead pressed against yours, the effort of holding back a tangible thing.
“Okay?” he breathes, the single word laced with a surprising thread of vulnerability.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He doesn’t. He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that feels less like sex and more like a desperate, soul-deep claiming. Each thrust is a punctuation mark in a silent, devastating conversation. This isn't the frantic, stolen coupling you’re used to, hushed in a cramped bunk with the ever-present threat of discovery. There’s no hurry, no fear. There’s only the moonlight, the roar of the waterfall, and the two of you, finally, completely, alone.
He changes his angle slightly, and the new pressure against your clit sends a jolt of pure electricity through you. You gasp, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back. You’re not surprised when he immediately recognizes the sound for what it is. He's a medic, after all. He's trained to read the body's signals, to understand its language of twitches and gasps and shudders. He’s using that training now, not to heal, but to unravel you, piece by piece.
“Right there?” he murmurs, hitting the spot again, harder this time. He watches your face, a look of concentrated pleasure on his own. “There?”
“Yes,” you pant, your eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, Kix, yes…”
“Eyes on me,” he commands, his voice a low growl. He slows down to a deliberately maddening pace that has you writhing beneath him. “Look at me when I’m inside you.”
You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze. He’s watching you with a look of such raw hunger, such unwavering focus, that it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the galaxy. The only thing that matters.
He increases the pace again, his movements becoming faster, harder, more desperate. The room is filled with the sounds of your pleasure—the slap of skin on skin, your harsh pants, his low groans, the creak of the opulent bedframe as it protests the assault. He’s driving you higher and higher, pushing you toward another peak, and you can feel it building, a coiling tension in your stomach that’s about to snap. Kix catalogues it all with the focused intensity of a battlefield medic, but instead of searching for wounds, he's searching for the exact points of your pleasure, the precise pressure and rhythm that will make you shatter.
You’re so close, right on the edge, when he suddenly stops. He pulls out, leaving you feeling empty and aching with a need so profound it’s almost painful.
“Kix!” you cry out, a frustrated, desperate sound. “Don’t you dare—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, and you can see the effort it takes for him to hold back. “Trust me.”
You do. You do trust him, with your life, with your heart, with your body. So you nod, biting your lip to stop the flood of protests. He rewards you with a wicked smile.
“Turn over,” he says, his voice a low, husky command.
You hesitate for a heartbeat, surprised by the sudden shift, but then you do as he asks. You roll onto your stomach, pulling a pillow under your hips to raise yourself for him. You feel exposed, vulnerable, in a way you haven’t before. But as he runs a possessive hand down the curve of your spine, you feel a thrill of excitement, a heady rush of surrender.
His fingers find your soaked folds, parting the soft flesh with a practiced touch. He strokes your clit, slow and deliberate, just enough to keep the fire burning, but not enough to let it consume you. You’re writhing against the sheets, a wordless plea for more.
“Patience,” he murmurs, echoing your own words back to you. You can hear the smug smile in his tone. “We have all night. We have two weeks.”
Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, you feel the blunt head of his cock nudge at your entrance again. He enters you slowly, this new angle allowing him to sink even deeper than before, hitting places you didn’t even know existed. A long, drawn-out moan escapes your lips as he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that’s both overwhelming and utterly perfect.
He stills, giving you a moment to adjust, then leans over you, bracing his hands on the bed on either side of your head. His body is a warm, heavy weight, a comforting cage that you have no desire to escape. He presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, right over the delicate knob of your spine, and sets a slow rhythm that’s both tender and possessive.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “When you were planning all this? Did you picture me like this? Fucking you until you can’t remember your own name?”
His words are crude, a stark contrast to the gentle way he’s moving, but they send a fresh flood of heat through you. You never imagined this, never dared to let your fantasies run this wild. He’s always been so controlled, so contained. But this… this unbridled, passionate version of him is a revelation. A gift.
“Yes,” you gasp, pushing back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. “Fuck, yes…”
He growls, a low, primal sound, and picks up the pace. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he pistons into you, the headboard of the bed now banging against the wall with a frantic, rhythmic beat. The moonlight streams in, illuminating the room, but you’ve lost all awareness of anything but the feel of him inside you, the sound of his ragged breaths in your ear, the overwhelming, all-consuming pleasure. He’s not holding back anymore. He’s taking everything you have to give, and giving it back to you tenfold.
You can feel another orgasm building, this one different from the others. Deeper, more powerful. It’s a tidal wave gathering in the distance, and you can feel the tremor of its approach in your trembling limbs, in the hitch in your breath. You close your eyes, surrendering to the sensation, to the raw bliss of it.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he pants, his hand fisting in your hair and pulling your head back, forcing you to look at the massive window, at your own reflection superimposed over the moonlit waterfall. “Watch. I want you to see what you look like when you come for me.”
And you do. You see your face, flushed with pleasure, your lips parted in a silent scream. You see him, powerful and dominant, his jaw tight with concentration, his eyes dark with a hunger that’s all for you. It’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. The sight is the final push you need, and the tidal wave crashes over you.
You scream his name as your orgasm tears through you, a white-hot explosion of pleasure that leaves you breathless and boneless. Your whole body convulses, your inner walls clamping down around him, milking him for all he’s worth. He follows you over the edge a moment later, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that fills you completely. He groans your name as he lets go, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his whole body shaking with the force of his release. The sounds are raw and unrestrained, a perfect echo of your own. There’s no holding back here, no quieting your pleasure for the sake of stealth. There’s only this. This perfect, uninhibited union.
He collapses on top of you, his dead weight a comforting pressure. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, and you’re both slick with sweat, the room smelling of sex and salt and him. It’s everything you never knew you needed, and you feel a wave of fierce, protective love wash over you. You did this. You gave him this. This one, perfect, uninterrupted moment of peace.
You stay like that for a long time, your bodies still joined, your breaths slowly returning to normal. The moonlight streams in, a silent witness to your afterglow, and the roar of the waterfall is a soothing backdrop. You’re both spent, completely and utterly sated, but you don’t want to move. You don’t want this to end.
Eventually, though, he stirs. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before slowly, carefully, pulling out of you. You whimper at the loss, and he shushes you with a soothing caress down your spine. He rolls off you, landing on the floor beside the bed with a soft thud, and you're about to ask what he's doing when the sound of running water reaches your ears.
A few moments later, he’s back, lifting you into his arms as if you weigh nothing. You’re so tired you can barely hold your head up, but you loop your arms around his neck and nuzzle against his chest as he carries you over to the tub. He’s started the water, and the room is quickly filling with steam, carrying the scent of some exotic, floral oil.
He gently lowers you into the bubbling water, and you sigh as the heat seeps into your well-used muscles. He climbs in behind you, settling you back against his chest. The tub is massive, and you both fit easily, the water lapping at your shoulders. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, and you rest your head back against his shoulder, completely content.
This is bliss. This is the peace you wanted for him. For both of you. This quiet, intimate moment, where the only thing that matters is the feel of your skin against his, the steady beat of his heart in your ear. There’s no war here. No death, no duty, no responsibility. There’s only the water, and the moonlight, and the two of you.
“That was…” he starts softly. You can feel the smile in his tone without needing to see it. “Way better than a kolto injection. We should put this in the standard issue medkit.”
You snort a weak laugh as you tip your head back to look at him. He's watching you with an expression of such naked adoration it makes your chest ache. The post-coital haze has softened all the sharp edges, leaving only the gentle, devoted core of him. You trail a wet hand up his arm, tracing the corded muscle before linking your fingers with his.
“We’d need a bigger medkit,” you retort, your voice raspy from exertion. He chuckles, the sound a deep, rumbling vibration that you feel through your entire back. He uses his free hand to scoop up some water and pour it over your shoulder, watching it trace a path down your chest. His gaze is hot and possessive, a banked fire ready to flare to life again at a moment's notice. You can feel the promise of it in the way he holds you, a silent assertion that this night, and the next thirteen, are all his. The thought makes you shiver.
“Feeling any more relaxed, medic?” you ask, your voice a low murmur. “I feel like my treatment is showing some progress.”
He tightens his arm around you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
“Relaxed isn’t the word I’d use,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “I feel… recalibrated. Like a set of karked up gyros that have finally been aligned.”
“Gyros,” you repeat, a giggle bubbling up from your chest. You turn in his arms to face him, straddling his lap. The water sloshes around you, and you place your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm. “You’re the most romantic man I’ve ever met.”
“I try,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle your cheek. His stubble scrapes against your skin, a pleasant, rough texture that sends a fresh wave of arousal through you. “Only the best poetic metaphors for my favorite nurse.”
You tilt your head, capturing his lips in a slow, sweet kiss. There’s no desperation in it this time, no frantic urgency. It’s a kiss of connection, of reaffirmation. A quiet acknowledgment of the new reality you’ve just built together. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, and you open for him with a soft sigh. He tastes of you, and of the clean, slightly floral taste of the bathwater. He tastes like home.
You’re the one to break the kiss, resting your forehead against his. The water is starting to cool, but the warmth you feel radiating from him is more than enough to keep the chill at bay.
“So,” you say, your breath hitching as his hands start to explore, tracing the curve of your spine, the swell of your hips. “A hundred and ninety-two more to go? That’s a lot of work.”
“Ah, you know me,” he reminds you, a wicked glint in his eye. “I’m a workaholic."
You laugh, a bright, happy sound that echoes in the steamy room. You can’t remember the last time you laughed so freely. You can’t remember the last time you felt this light, this unburdened. He did that. He gave you this.
“We should probably get out before we turn into prunes,” you say, though you make no move to leave. You’re perfectly content right where you are, tucked in his arms, in this opulent, improbable bubble of peace.
“Probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move either. He just holds you, his hands tracing idle patterns on your skin. “I’m just trying to figure out what my official diagnosis is, so I can put it in my report.”
“You’re filing a report?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “On our vacation?”
“Of course,” he says, all serious medic. “For the sake of medical science. So, what are we calling this condition? Terminal happiness?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a Zeltrosian Love Sickness,” you suggest, running a finger down the line of his jaw. “Symptoms include an inability to keep one’s hands to oneself, a sudden fondness for ridiculous cocktails, and a marked decrease in tactical awareness.”
“Sounds serious,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “And the prescribed treatment?”
“More of the same,” you whisper against his lips. “Administered daily, for the next thirteen days. Possibly longer, if the patient remains uncooperative.”
“I think we can classify the patient as extremely cooperative,” he says, his hands sliding down to cup your ass, pulling you closer. “But a full course of treatment is probably for the best. Just to be sure.”
You’re both smiling, a giddy, foolish happiness that feels almost dangerous after years of war and stoicism. This is the real magic of Zeltros, you realize. Not the glowing caves or the beautiful beaches, but the way it peels back the layers of armor and fear you’ve both worn for so long, until all that’s left is the raw, vulnerable, and wonderfully hopeful core of who you are. Of who you are together.
The water has grown cool, a gentle prod that it’s time to move. You finally climb out, grabbing two of the ridiculously fluffy, white robes that are hanging on a heated rack. You toss one to him before wrapping yourself in the other, and all the while you feel the warmth of his gaze on you.
You can’t help but preen under the attention, a smile playing on your lips as you take your sweet time tying the sash at your waist. The look on his face is worth it. The hunger that was sated is now a slow-burning banked fire, one that promises endless nights of this very thing. You know, without a doubt, that you will both take full advantage of this.
He watches with a wry, knowing as he shrugs on his own robe. The soft fabric hangs open, revealing a tantalizing stretch of his chest and that trail of dark hair that disappears below the sash. He makes no move to tie it, just stands there, radiating a comfortable confidence that sends a fresh wave of desire through you. It's a low hum beneath the surface of your contentment, a promise of more to come that makes your skin tingle.
"So," he starts with a nonchalance that belies the look in his eye, "you mentioned something about handcuffs?"
hiii can you do reader x clones when reader is on their period? like how they would act, and if they’d get pads for reader when reader asks
╰┈➤ ❝ day one of my period is actually just me fighting for my life ❞
gn! reader
warnings: one sentence mentions the word pussy, but it's just fives thinking he's funny smh
a/n: ofc thank ya for the request!! also i don’t think the kaminoans would’ve taught them about the menstrual cycle at all, poor boys
FOX tries to be a little less snarky and grouchy, because he knows you’re going to be as well for the week(s) and all hell would break loose if the two of you were in a negative mood. if there’s any loophole or absolute chance to come home earlier, he takes it immediately. he’ll visit some markets on the way back if you ask him for any food or pads. “yeah, i can get you some, uh—what ones do you need? alright, just… stay there—yes, i know you’re not going to move, y’know what i mean.” and then he hides it in a bag—nobody needs to know what he’s doing, they’re all nosy. he’s not a great comforter, so he may do slightly shitty, but he’s trying.
WOLFFE keeps himself close to you, but not in an overprotective way, just in a ‘if you want me to hit anybody who’s annoying you, tell me’ way. he’ll kiss you on your neck a lot more, he knows emotions can be all over the place, and he wants to assure you silently that he still loves you. if you ask him for products, he’ll gladly go to the market for you. he tries to be knowledgable, but some things still confuse him, so he’ll comm you. “hey, yeah… so… what size do you need? i assume they’re not all the same right? they’re not based on…? okay. fine, what ones do you need, anyway?”
CODY understands that you’re snarky and you snap a lot, he won’t ignore it per se—but in a way where he’ll acknowledge what you’ve said and not take it to heart. he’ll hug you and press his chin on top of your head. “hey, deep breaths, okay?” he’ll happily go to any markets to get what you need, he’s already remembered what you need, but if you ask for different ones whilst he’s already out: “hm? ah, d’ya need some for a heavier flow? yeah, i’ve got you, just rest, love you.”
BLY is even more softer than he already is? which feels impossible. he’s constantly pointing out desserts if you both go past them, wondering if you want this one or that one. basically, a massive spoiler to you. he’s already going to the markets before you even ask him, “hey, i’ve gotten a couple packs, do you need anymore? no? alright, i’ll pick you up some food and i’ll be back, i love you.” he’ll pick up too much of everything for you.
MAYDAY is already by your side and hugging you tightly when you both wake up, he hears your quiet grunts of pain as you curl up. he presses his hand on your lower abdomen and hum into your neck. “want me to go out and pick you up some painkillers n’ the like?” once he hears your ‘yes’, he immediately gets up and gets dressed. “what ones do you need? yeah, i can do that, i’ll pick you up some food as well if you’d like.” he smiles and presses a kiss to your lips before leaving.
REX tries his best, but he’s also still quite unknowledgeable, but he’s enthusiasm in wanting to help you makes up for it. he didn’t know what food to get, or what type of pads to get either. he came home with a whole basket load and watched you unpack it. “so uh… i’m not quite sure what ones you needed, so… i got all of them?” he murmurs and hides his face into his hands embarrassed when you explain that every one is different for a reason.
GREGOR is more mellow in the sense he won’t raise his voice as much when talking. he might forget himself, but he’ll bury his face and give you attention in your shoulder and apologise. also, isn’t the greatest when it comes to supplies. “yo, so i’m at the market, and there’s ones with wings… uh… do they… fly? and there’s also ones with not—hey, hey! i’m not making a joke outta it, m’ being serious—oh. y’know what… that makes more sense. ‘kay, love you, see ya in a bit!”
HOWZER makes you write a list on the datapad before you go into your cycle, if you know, that is. if you don’t, he’ll want you to do it as soon as you start. just so he can be sure to get everything you need. he’s protective in public as well, if anyone even looks at you wrong, he’ll just glare at them and grip your hand. he likes to be with you when you’re getting anything, so he can make a note in his mind what you like and what you tend to favour over. “mhm, this looks nice, i’ll make a note that you like it.” he smiles.
HUNTER can… sense it, but not in a weird way, his heightened senses does include smell. so, as soon as he traces that hint of metallic—he’s by your side. his shoulder or leg will be touching you in some way, he’ll lean his chin on your shoulder a lot and wrap his arms around your waist. he’ll offer to go to any market to get you some stuff. “i’m here, just tell me what you need. i’ve got it, yeah, okay, see you soon.”
WRECKER is overly buying things the moment you start, even stuff that you don’t need. obviously, you don’t tell him, because he’s so passionate about it. if you need his bear hugs, he’ll give it to you alright, like every five seconds—and then he’ll litter kisses over your face. he’ll even offer to give you a shoulder or back carry when you’re out in public, he claims he doesn’t want to see you in pain, but it’s just an excuse to hold you. “what market first? lead the way!”
TECH already comes prepared with any supplies you need, when you change slightly pre-menstrual wise, he knows you’re about to start. so, he’ll get everything you need and want, put it in a basket and have it by your bed. he likes to tell you scientifically that you can’t help how you feel, that’s his way of reassuring you. “you are in pain and you’re going to be angry because of that, you don’t need to keep apologising.” he speaks softly as he rubs your knuckles with his thumb.
CROSSHAIR knows something’s up when you take his snarky retorts seriously. usually he can be snarky and you’ll just banter back without any emotion. he’ll try his best to be less… snide, it’ll still be there, but he will try and stop for you subtly. you’ll come home to have pads and some food of your liking by your bed. “hmph, it was on sale, and the food was a free sample, that’s all.” is what he’d say in return, but you both know it’s a lie.
ECHO sort of knows what he’s doing, he’ll still like you to educate him, because everybody has different experiences. he likes to snuggle up to you and massage your lower abdomen, try to ease at least some pain. his hands are really cold, though. so in some instances, it does actually help. he’d prefer to go to the markets with you by his side, so he can get the right things for you. you point to anything and he’ll get it. “this one? noted, i’ll get that for ya.”
FIVES jokes about it a lot, but on the inside he’s panicking, because he still doesn’t know he’s doing. he wants you to be at ease and not in pain, because it actually hurts him seeing you keel over. he’ll let you curl up against him and he’ll run soothing touches over you. he actually does know what he’s getting you, though, tell him what pads you need and gets them in a heartbeat. he bows and grins, “your pussy protection, my love.” yeah, he gets a slap to the shoulder for that.
JESSE is on his knees for you during those weeks, he’ll worship you and get you whatever you need. want him to make you food? he learns recipes just for that. need any supplies? he’s got that sorted too. just want to lay on the floor and rot away? he’ll be lying next to you. whenever you need him for any little thing, oh, he’s there. “you need anything else? i can do something else, just anythin’ to make you feel better.”
HARDCASE hugs you every single second he can, he’ll embrace you tightly and try to hug the emotion out of you. he’s always so enthusiastic about wanting to help you and try to educate himself, but bless him, he’s a little stupid about it. he’ll come home with pads and chicken wings if you ask for pads with wings. “huh? what? yeah, i got ya pads with wings!” you try not to laugh and sigh internally, trying to explain to him. “with wings? i just said, i got ya—the actual? oh, oh—! well, hey, at least you’ve got chicken with it… or… do you need me to go back?”
KIX is definitely more knowledgeable than most clones, he’s a medic obviously, he knows this stuff—and he’s had experience with some clones as well. he doesn’t treat you like you’re fragile, but he’ll ease up on everything, like understanding if you snap at him or start sobbing into his arms. he’ll leave you to sleep in, and tuck you in tightly with a kiss to your head. he’ll make sure he’s the one buying your supplies, if he’s on shift, he’ll make coric or another medic take over for a couple hours. “i’ll be seeing you soon, i’m just picking up a few pieces then i’ll be over. love you.”
DOGMA is glad he doesn’t get them anymore (with the help of kix) but he still has some things leftover from when he did last have one. like hot water bottles and weighted blankets, but he did want to go and buy you new pads. he knows what he’s doing, he’ll only comm you to ask if there’s a specific one you need. “hello, i’m at the market, is there anything else you need? like food or anything extra? yeah, i’ll do that, just don’t overdo anything whilst i’m gone.”
TUP is a worrying mess, but only because he doesn’t know the hell to do, even with past experience from someone he knows. he wants to help and soothe you, luckily, you’re there to help educate him, and he’s very grateful for it. but he is also shocked with horror with how your body works—nobody told him that in detail, he’s then cuddling you with snuggles every five seconds. he’ll bring you to the market so you could pick out anything, he wouldn’t even care if you picked out everything. “do you need this one? what about that one? i can get you this one?” he’s blabbering on about trying to get you the right things.
SLICK is internally worried, on the outside it seems he’s just calm about the entire thing, but he is not. when he sees you grunt in pain, he’s entire brain goes into overdrive, he’ll be by your side and press his hand over yours. “i’ve got you, it’ll pass.” he’s a bit more hesitant to get you things from the market, because what if they’ve got it out for bodies like yours? you have to assure him. “you can’t always trust markets—okay! okay, i’m gettin’ it, alright? just… calm down.” he also gets a lecture for that, too.
501st!clones x gn!reader hcs – catching you in a lie
synopsis: based on the following prompt – “you’re a terrible liar.” fluff/crack mostly.
featured clones: rex, fives, jesse, hardcase, kix, tup, dogma
warnings: none :)
wc (total): 4.4k
.✦ ݁˖ rex (647 words)
was this a terrible idea? yes. were you going to do it anyways? also yes.
rex told you that the 501st’s next job was a simple one. they needed to return to ryloth a month after its liberation, to help deliver some supplies. the damage that the separatists had done hit the planet hard, and they had requested republic resources to help speed up the process of reparations. even though that was usually not a job for the 501st, rex had been telling you how grateful he was to finally catch a small break after back-to-back intense missions, where he had to watch so many of his brothers perish every time.
since he had made it sound like a low-stakes mission, you figured there would be no problems if you just… showed up. he was always telling you about how much he regrets that he gets almost no time to spend with you. well, here was your chance to remedy that, and you were going to take it.
even though you’re fairly certain that you were ripped off, since no ride should cost that many credits, you hitched the next ship to ryloth. the closer you get to your destination, the more excited you get, imagining the look on his face when he realizes.
meanwhile, rex was not having such a great time. he was growing tired of hearing the 501st spend so much time complaining. “they’re wasting us! we should be on the front lines,” fives protests, earning a cheer from jesse and hardcase. “you lot should be grateful. you’ll get enough of the front lines. this is probably the first and last time we’re getting sent on a mission like this,” rex reasons, exasperated. poor man just wants a break.
the drop off goes well, with no unpleasant surprises. rex feels warm looking at all the citizens smiling as he hands them supplies, grateful that he gets to play a role in protecting people like these.
a child comes and grabs his hand, pulling him away. rex laughs and lets himself get carried away, just this time. he follows the child deep into the capital, who is clearly insistent on dragging him somewhere specific. the child stops in front of a small cart with sweets.
“oh, you want me to get you candies,” rex says, mostly to himself. although he doesn’t have many credits on him, he does what he can, buying the child a few lollipops. the child thanks him and runs off, and rex watches them go, smiling and shaking his head.
“excuse me kind sir, could you buy me some sweets as well?” he freezes, slowly turning his head to meet your gaze. he blinks once, twice, but you’re still there.
he wants to do so many things: hug you, kiss you, ask where you came from, why you’re here. but instead, he decides to humour you. “of course, what kind would you like? if i remember correctly, gummies are your favourite,” he says, fishing for credits in a pocket somewhere. your brow furrows “i’m sorry sir, but i don’t think we know each other.”
rex can’t stop himself any longer. he grabs you and pulls you into a hug so tight, you get lifted off the ground a little. “next time you try to lie to someone, don’t smile so much,” he mumbles into your hair. as he puts you down, you fake offence. “are you saying i’m a bad liar?” “no, i’m saying you’re a terrible one,” he says. he still can’t believe it, that you’re here. he’s so grateful, he can’t stop smiling.
after buying you both some candy, he takes your hand and brings you to the top of a hill, where you two watch the sunset together. he spends the evening listening to you talk about how you got to ryloth and kissing you every five seconds, thanking you over and over for giving him the best surprise ever.
.✦ ݁˖ fives (496 words)
maybe it was the weather, or maybe you were just burnt out. whatever it was, your energy had massively dipped. everything started feeling a little emptier, and you felt like you couldn’t do anything about it.
fives, of course, had noticed. he may not always pick up on little details, but he can read energies like a psychic. and he’s determined to help you feel better by any means possible.
he doesn’t get a lot of time with you, but he’s going to make it work. when he finds out he’s getting a day where the 501st aren’t doing anything, he gets straight to work.
he stops to pick up your favourite food, get you some fuzzy socks, and a new movie for the two of you to watch. he writes you a card, even if it’s a little rushed because he had to ask the cashier for a pen and didn’t want to hold up the line.
his hands are full when he knocks at your door. when you open the door, your face immediately lights up. “fives!” you exclaim, jumping into a hug. he chuckles. “i’d love to hug you back, darling, but my hands are a little full.”
once he’s settled, he shows you all the things he got, one by one. he gives you a kiss between each one, too. when he’s done he says, “now come on, the food’s getting cold.” and with that, the two of you enjoy the movie he got while eating the yummy food.
once the movie’s over, and the food is long gone, fives makes you look at him. “what’s going on with you?” he asks, careful not to sound too intense. you look away, the words refusing to leave your throat. “nothing. i just…” you trail off. fives just shakes his head a little, pulling you into a hug. “you’re a terrible liar, you know. but you don’t have to talk right now if you don’t want to,” he reassures.
after that, he takes care of everything, while letting you rest under a blanket wearing the new socks he got for you. he does the dishes, cleans the countertops, and even does your laundry. he puts effort into cleaning the bathroom, kitchen and your bedroom properly, knowing that a clean space can make all the difference. if you try to help him he’ll straight out refuse, forcing you to remain grounded on the couch.
and when he’s all done, he takes a quick shower and carefully lifts you off the sofa, taking you to bed. he tucks you both into the covers, kissing you softly and whispering sweet nothings. he tells you all the things he loves about you, and how proud he is of you. he’ll tell you why he believes in you and how you make his life better. and then he’ll listen to you talk about how you’re feeling, and go to sleep holding you tight, saying “i’m always here for you.”
.✦ ݁˖ jesse (590 words)
jesse’s so drunk, you don’t even know how he’s standing. to be fair, bringing him here wasn’t one of your greatest ideas, but it was his fault for getting so wasted.
you thought that he needed to wind down. being home wasn’t working; the war was weighing too heavily on his shoulders. you saw what the trauma was doing to him, and since he refused to address it directly, you decided that you needed to distract him. but this is more than you imagined.
he’s so loud when he laughs, sounding borderline maniacal. you join him on the floor, dancing with him, if only out of concern that he’s going to trip and fall any moment. he looks a little too happy as he spins you around, and you decide enough is enough.
“jesse, we need to go,” you yell, trying to be heard over the loud music and chatter. he whines, “but i don’t wanna. i’m having fun.” you take his hand, slowly dragging him to a quiet corner. “i know,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “but it’s late. don’t you want cuddles?” now you’ve piqued his interest. as he says, “oh yeah, let’s go,” he stumbles forward, and you struggle to catch his 200 lbs of muscle.
it takes you way too long to get him out of there. you have to half-drag him, and on top of that, he kept whining about going back every two seconds. when you finally make it out of the club, the two of you take a deep breath at the same time. for you, it’s to steel yourself for the task of getting you both home in one piece. for him, he’s just enjoying the outside air.
as you two stand against the wall, waiting for the next taxi, he looks over at you. his hungry gaze travels up, then down, then up again. you catch him before you can do anything, shutting him down, “not here, and definitely not now. you’re wasted,” you scold him. he frowns a little, but doesn’t argue.
once the taxi finally arrives, you manage to get him to stumble in. the ride home is entertaining, to say the least, since he made it his mission to comment on every vehicle you passed. “that speeder looks old, they should buy a new one.” then he looked to the sky. “the ships all look so small from here,” he giggles. you just shake your head, smiling at his antics.
miraculously, you manage to get him inside, and in bed. you then get ready for bed yourself, and when you leave the refresher, you expect him to have passed out already. but he’s still awake, waiting for you to join him.
“finally,” he mutters when you join him under the covers. you lay on your side, facing him. “you’re such a hassle, you know.” “i’m your hassle,” he says cheekily, “and you love me for it.” you roll your eyes, “no, i hate you. now go to sleep,” you chide, pushing his forehead lightly.
he grabs your arm and pulls you on top of him, so your faces are inches from one another. “you’re a terrible liar,” he whispers. with one hand on the back of your head, he guides your lips to his, kissing you intensely. his tilts his head, trying to deepen the kiss, when you pull back. “nuh uh, you’re drunk,” you say, pushing yourself off him. he groans, “fine. but at least cuddle with me.” and you laugh, happy to oblige.
.✦ ݁˖ hardcase (783 words)
the best thing about being with hardcase was that there was never a dull moment. he always had something funny to say, some new thing for the two of you to try, some new item on his bucket list. but your reactions to his antics had only emboldened him overtime, which meant that his ego had grown exponentially. he now wholeheartedly believed that he was the most funny, charming, handsome and fun person you knew, which was true. but you needed to humble him. (#putmenintheirplace)
so you decide to spend a day pretending that he’s not amusing in the slightest, as a prank. you knew it was going to be hard, so you spend a few days coaching yourself, mastering the art of nonchalance. but that act almost shatters when you see him, since he’s so bubbly and excited to see you.
no, you’re dedicated. too much time was spent preparing to give up now. so even though it kills you a little bit, you remain stoic as he greets you, returning his hug only half-heartedly.
“did i do something wrong?” he asks, looking utterly bewildered at your attitude. you simply shrug him off.
as the day goes on, hardcase only gets more confused. you don’t laugh at any of his jokes. don’t ask him a single question about the details of his time away. don’t initiate any contact. don’t entertain any of his ideas. no offence, but he was finding you a little boring. which was concerning to him, since you were usually the complete obvious.
his confusion is tinged with a little bit of sadness, since if there’s something wrong he wants you to just talk about it. but all his attempts at conversation had been shut down. almost half the day goes by, and he still hasn’t gotten you to crack.
but secretly, you were having an extremely difficult time. it was so hard not to laugh at his jokes, and you spent way too much time today thinking of your dead relatives to try to keep yourself from laughing. and trying not to reach for him when he’s right there was almost impossible. but he hadn’t really given you the reaction you wanted yet, so you kept going.
but then hardcase walks straight into the bookshelf, causing it to jerk so hard that most of the stuff on it falls out. “shit! i-i’ll fix this,” he swears, already on his hands and knees to clean the mess. but the action is so unbelievably him, and all the laughter you had spent the day containing threatened to come up all at once. so you do what any rational person would do, and run straight to the refresher.
when you wordlessly get up and run to the bathroom, hardcase assumes you’re crying. he thinks that you were already upset and him knocking over the things on your bookshelf was your final straw. but as he timidly approaches the refresher, it’s not the sound of sobbing that he hears - it’s his favourite sound, the sound of you giggling.
at first he stands right outside, dumbfounded. why would you run to the bathroom just to laugh? why were you even laughing? had you gone mad in his absence? hardcase ponders all this before the conclusion finally hits him - you were pranking him. the same way he always pranks you.
he’s genuinely amazed at how good of a prank it was. if he hadn’t heard you in the bathroom, he wouldn’t have guessed it. you had successfully managed to make him doubt himself.
when you open the door, stepping back into the living room, hardcase is sitting on the sofa. the bookshelf has been returned to its usual state. he turns to look at you, patting the spot beside him. “c’mere.”
once you sit beside him, he snakes an arm around you. “you think you’re funny, huh?” he asks, squeezing your arm. your eyes widen slightly, realizing that he’s caught you, but you try not to let it slip. “i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying to defend yourself.
you’re caught off guard as he flips you so that you’re laying down, back against the sofa, and he’s on top of you. “you’re a terrible liar,” he laughs. then he leans in, whispering “i’m gonna punish you for playing with my head all day.”
“wha-” you start, but before you can finish his hands are all over. he’s tickling you like no tomorrow, and you try to swat him away but it isn’t working. he doesn’t stop until you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe.
he flops on top you, satisfied with his work. “now it’s my turn to prank you.”
.✦ ݁˖ kix (637 words)
the 501st never listen to kix. he tells them all about the best practices on how to keep in good shape, the kind of food they should be eating, how to protect their immunity, and how to recover following an intense campaign. but he’s lucky if he can even get them to sit long enough for him to patch them up.
so when you and kix get together, he finds someone who will actually allow him to care for them, and listen to him. and while being with him had definitely helped your health improve over time, he was also scarily overprotective whenever something happened to you. you remember how devastated he got when you got a small sprain in your wrist from catching yourself fall, wrapping it tightly and not allowing you to do anything with that hand until the sprain healed (over-dramatic much). so when you found out you have the flu, you feared what he would do.
you didn’t want kix to spend so much time worrying, and you wanted to still be able to leave the house (lmao) so you decided not to tell him. and even though he could feel something was off over calls, he wouldn’t really push, since he knew you would tell him of any problems you had if you wanted to.
but over the next few days, your flu worsened. forget the house, you weren’t even in a condition to leave your bed. and while you wished your sweet medic was here to help you heal, he had more important things to be doing.
unfortunately, you had underestimated kix’s worry. when you didn’t pick up his calls for the next two days, opting to send hasty messages instead, he decided it was time to come see you himself. burrowed underneath a pile of blankets, completely absorbed in your own misery, you don’t hear him enter your apartment. you don’t even realize he’s there until you hear the sound of someone clearing their throat in your room.
as you sit up, raising your head above the blankets, your panic subsides when you realize it’s not an intruder. but the panic returns when you see kix, looking like a dark shadow in the doorway to your room. and the expression on his face made him look even scarier.
“you’re sick,” he states, the words poison on his tongue. you rasp, “well, hello to you too,” breaking into a coughing fit at the end.
with a sigh only the medic of the 501st can muster, he makes his way over to you and sits on the edge of your bed. stroking your hair gently, he asks “how long have you been sick?” “i only got sick yesterday,” you try to lie. your condition had progressed over a few days, but technically you only felt really sick starting yesterday, so it wasn’t a complete lie… right?
he trails his hand from your hair, down the side of your face, then your neck, finally stopping at your shoulder. he slowly pushes you back down against the pillows. “you’re a terrible liar, you know. i know how the flu works.” his tone sounds stern, but he’s smiling while he says it.
after that, kix has everything covered. tissues? he’s already bought them. soup? he’s made it. medicine? he brought the best kind for you. he knows how weak people get when infected, so he helps you to the bathroom, and helps you shower if you let him. he shuts down your protests about getting him sick, mumbling something about the kaminoans engineering clones to be immune to common illnesses. you’re too tired to question if it’s the truth or not.
a few days later, when you’re almost better, he pulls you close. kissing your forehead, he says “promise you won’t hide from me again.”
.✦ ݁˖ tup (550 words)
the two of you sit nervously in the parlour of the tattoo shop, steeling yourselves to get piercings. the only reason the two of you were here was because you were both too stubborn to admit the other could be right.
you had been showing him pictures of industrials, telling him that you thought they looked amazing. but he had only scoffed, saying that your pain tolerance was far too low to handle getting a piercing like that. offended, you said “and what about your pain tolerance?” “i’m a soldier,” he replied confidently, “i can handle anything. don’t you see the tattoo on my face?” but you laughed him off, saying “that tiny thing? that doesn’t count. i don’t see you with any piercings either, mr. soldier.” you two proceeded to have an (unserious) argument about this, and now the two of you were here to prove to one another that you absolutely could handle the pain of getting a piercing.
tup was going to get an orbital, and you were going to get that industrial that you liked. but as you sat together in the lobby, he couldn’t keep his leg from bouncing up and down. going from no piercings to a cartilage piercing was a little intense, but he kept convincing himself that he could handle the pain. how he was going to keep it clean or prevent it from snagging on his helmet, he didn’t know, but that was a later problem. but he also notices that way your jaw is a little bit too tense, and he takes his opportunity to play with you. “you know, i’ve heard a lot of industrials go wrong,” he whispers in your ear. “if that’s supposed to scare me, it didn’t work,” you say, glaring at him. he presses a small kiss to your temple. “you’re a terrible liar.” which was funny, because tup was just as scared as you, if not more.
when the piercer calls the two of you up, he insists you go first. “why, you scared?” you taunt him. “no,” he denies vehemently, “i’m just letting you go before you wimp out.” really, though, he was very scared. which was aggravating him, because even if you were nervous, you were doing a great job of hiding it.
tup doesn’t listen as you discuss the angle and placement of the piercing. he’s too busy repeating i’m a soldier, i’m a soldier over and over in his head. but he would almost prefer going straight back to the battlefield than being in this situation right now.
your piercing goes by quickly, without complication. “it’s actually not as bad as i was expecting,” you tell him, putting a hand on his shoulder. you meant the gesture to be comforting, but tup doesn’t take it that way. “yeah, yeah,” he mutters, making his way to the bed.
but five minutes later, tup is admiring his new piercing in the mirror. it actually didn’t hurt nearly as much as he had expected. as the two of you leave the parlour together, hand in hand, you nudge him with your elbow. “you were scared~” he just shushes you, because no matter how scared he was, he was glad it happened. especially because he really liked how you looked with your new piercing.
.✦ ݁˖ dogma (656 words)
dogma doesn’t often come see you in his armour. he prefers to keep you separate from that life. besides, he doesn’t really think he’s supposed to wear his armour out and about.
but sometimes when he’s really tired, or if he’s in a rush, he will come see visit you without putting in the effort to change. and although he worries that his dirty and mildly sweaty armour will be off-putting, it’s actually had the… opposite effect.
at first he mistook your shyness as discomfort. he noticed that you would talk a little less whenever he came to see you in his armour, and you would appear to be slightly flushed. he thought that it was because you didn’t appreciate him bringing the war home, so he wore it less and less until it had been months until you had seen him in it.
one day, he realizes how flawed his perception was when you quietly ask him “why don’t you wear your armour around anymore?” he off-handedly mentions something about it not being the most comfortable, and you don’t ask further questions. but dogma’s mind is working in overdrive.
he decides to test his theory after the next campaign. he doesn’t tell you that he’s coming to see you to see your raw, unfiltered reaction. once the 501st returns to coruscant, he wastes no time in going to prepare to see you. he scrubs down his armour completely (first time he’s ever done it) and also washes his blacks (first time he’s done that, too).
once he’s ready, he checks himself out in the mirror. he faces a moment of doubt, wondering if he was in over his head. what if you had just asked him for no particular reason? had he really mistook your reactions to his armour? he almost abandons the idea completely, but then decides to follow through simply because he spent so much time preparing the surprise for you.
it’s late when he knocks on your door. at first, when you don’t answer, he wonders again if this is a stupid idea. but the next moment, you throw the door open, and so many expressions flash across your face in rapid fire.
surprise, that he’s here. shock, that he didn’t tell you that he was coming. happiness, that you would get an unexpected night together (very rare). and then… your face flushes when your eyes move downwards and see what he’s wearing. “hi,” you greet him, a little too breathlessly. normally you would have more to say, but you were a bit distracted.
“my eyes are up here, you know,” he teases. as you snap your eyes upwards to meet his, he can’t help the smug look on his face. so he was right. and this was information he could definitely use to his advantage.
you let him into the apartment, the only sound being the door closing shut behind him. then he takes a step forward, and you take one back, until your back hits the wall. he puts one hand against the wall beside you, trapping you.
“i think you’ve been hiding something from me,” he smirks. “and what would that be?” you ask, trying to keep your tone even. your thing for his armour had been your dirty little secret, and you didn’t really know how you felt about him finding out. slightly horrified, but also somewhat thrilled? this was just… very unexpected.
“i think you know what i’m talking about,” he says, tilting his head. you deny almost too quickly. “i don’t.”
he laughs a little before leaning in. “you’re a terrible liar, sweetheart.” you get ready to retort but before you can say anything, he slides his arms underneath your legs, picking you up and bringing you eye-level with him. you wrap your arms around his neck as he kisses you, and he smiles into the kiss, thanking the stars that he was right about this.
a/n: these were genuinely so fun to write esp hardcase’s lmaooo
